Sederi is the yearbook of the Spanish and Portuguese Society for English Renaissance Studies. It is an annual publication devoted to current criticism and scholarship on English literature, language, and culture of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. SEDERI publishes original articles, notes, and book reviews peer-reviewed by external readers, following a double-blind policy. Editor Ana Sáez-Hidalgo (Universidad de Valladolid) Managing editor Francisco-José Borge López (Universidad de Oviedo) Review editor María José Mora (Universidad de Sevilla) Production editors Sara Medina Calzada, Tamara Pérez Fernández, and Marta Revilla Rivas (U. Valladolid) Editorial Board Clara Calvo López (U. Murcia) Jorge Figueroa Dorrego (U. Vigo) Keith Gregor (U. Murcia) Mark Hutchings (U. Reading) Tamara Pérez Fernández (U. Valladolid) Juan A. Prieto Pablos (U. Sevilla) Advisory Board Maurizio Calbi (U. Salerno) Douglas Lanier (U. New Hampshire) Rui Carvalho Homem (U. Porto) Jesús López Peláez Casellas (U. Jaén) Pilar Cuder Domínguez (U. Huelva) Zenón Luis Martínez (U. Huelva) Michael Dobson (U. London) Salomé Machado (U. Lisboa) John Drakakis (U. Stirling) Andrew Monnickendam (U. Aut. Barcelona) Teresa Fanego (U. Santiago de Compostela) Javier Pérez Guerra (U. Vigo) Manuel Gómez Lara (U. Sevilla) Ángel Luis Pujante (U. Murcia) Dolores González Álvarez (U. Vigo) Tiffany Stern (U. Oxford) Santiago González Corugedo (U. Oviedo) Keith Whitlock (Open University) Derek Hughes (U. Aberdeen) Laura Wright (U. Cambridge)

SEDERI is currently indexed in: Annual Bibliography of English Language and Literature (ABELL), Arts and Humanities Citation Index, CARHUS+, CIRC, Dialnet plus, DICE- CINDOC (CSIC), EBSCOHOST, ERIH and ERIH plus, Fundación Española para la Ciencia y la Tecnología (FECYT), LATINDEX, MIAR, MLA International Bibliography, RESH , Scopus, SCIMAGO Journal Rank, Ulrich’s Periodicals Directory, Web of Science.

SEDERI. SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE SOCIETY FOR ENGLISH RENAISSANCE STUDIES The aim of SEDERI is to promote, stimulate and give impulse to the study and research of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English language, literature, and history and their relationship with their Spanish and Portuguese counterparts. Board President: Zenón Luis Martínez (U. Huelva); Secretary-Treasurer: Marta Cerezo Moreno (UNED); Board members:, Juan F. Cerdá (U. Murcia); Jesús López-Peláez Casellas (U. Jaén); Ana Sáez-Hidalgo (U.Valladolid). www.sederi.org © SEDERI, 2018

Universidad de Valladolid • Facultad de Filosofía y Letras Pza. del Campus s/n • E-47011 Valladolid (Spain) ISSN: 1135-7789 Depósito Legal: J-687-2004 Imprime: Ambrosio Rodríguez Cover design by Luis Vincent

We are grateful to Prof. José Antonio Álvarez Amorós for his expertise in font design. Special thanks to the Department of Filología Inglesa (U. Valladolid) for financial support.

Sederi 28

2018

EDITOR Ana Sáez-Hidalgo

MANAGING EDITOR Francisco-José Borge López

REVIEW EDITOR María José Mora

PRODUCTION EDITORS Sara Medina Calzada Tamara Pérez Fernández Marta Revilla Rivas

We are grateful to our collaborators for SEDERI 28:

Joan Beal (U. Sheffield, UK) Todd Borlik (U. Huddersfield, UK) Rui Carvalho (U. Porto, PT) Juan Francisco Cerdá (U. Murcia, SP) Marta Cerezo (UNED, SP) Pilar Cuder Domínguez (U. Huelva, SP) Frederick A. de Armas (U. Chicago, US) Luciano García García (U. Jaen, SP) Jodi-Anne George (U. Dundee, UK) Peter Happe (U. Southampton, UK) Elaine Hobby (Loughborough U., UK) Jean Howard (U. Columbia, US) Derek Hughes (U. Aberdeen, UK) Douglas Lanier (U. New Hampshire, US) Irena R Makaryk (U. Ottawa, CA) Linda McJannet (Harvard U., US) Joseph Ortiz (U. Texas at El Paso, US) José A. Pérez Díez (U. Leeds, UK) Rodrigo Pérez Lorido (U. Oviedo, SP) Javier Pérez Guerra (U. Vigo, SP) Miguel Ramalhete Gomes (U. Lisboa, PT) Cynthia Richards (Wittenberg U., US) Simon Smith (Shakespeare Institute, U. Birmingham, UK) R. F. Yeager (U. West Florida, US)

Sederi 28 (2018)

Table of contents

Articles

William C. Carroll “I knew him in Padua”: London theatre and early modern constructions of erudition ...... 7

Tomás Monterrey El príncipe tirano by Juan de la Cueva as the Spanish source of Thomas Lodge’s A Margarite of America: A comparative suggestion ...... 33

Margarete Rubik The house, the city, and the colony in the works of Aphra Behn: Gendered spaces and the freedoms and dangers they afford ...... 55

Zümre Gizem Yılmaz “The sweet fruition of an earthly crown”: Elemental mastery and ecophobia in Tamburlaine the Great and Doctor Faustus ...... 79

Notes

Paula Schintu “The gully-hole of literature”: On the enregisterment of cant language in seventeenth-century England ...... 99

Violetta Trofimova First encounters of Europeans and Africans with Native Americans in Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko: White woman, black prince and noble savages ...... 119

Reviews

William Shakespeare. The Comedy of Errors, ed. Kent Cartwright; and William Shakespeare. Cymbeline, ed. Valerie Wayne (The Arden Shakespeare) (by Jesús Tronch Pérez) ...... 131

Alison Findlay and Vassiliki Markidou, eds. Shakespeare and Greece (by Zenón Luis Martínez) ...... 141

Kirk Melnikoff, ed. Edward II: A Critical Reader (by Veronika Schandl) ...... 147

Marianne Novy. Shakespeare and Feminist Theory (by Francesca Rayner) ...... 151

Stephen O’Neill, ed. Broadcast Your Shakespeare (Continuity and Change across Media) (by Víctor Huertas Martín) ...... 155

Anthony Guy Patricia. Queering the Shakespeare Film: Gender Trouble, Gay Spectatorship and Male Homoeroticism ; and Goran Stanivukovic, ed. Queer Shakespeare: Desire and Sexuality (by Juan Carlos Hidalgo Ciudad) ...... 161

About Sederi ...... 167

Submission guidelines ...... 169

Style sheet and notes for contributors ...... 171

Articles

“I knew him in Padua”: London theatre and early modern constructions of erudition*

William C. Carroll Boston University, USA

ABSTRACT This paper examines one aspect of the two-way cultural traffic between London and Padua: how the city of Padua figured in debates about the nature of masculinity in early modern London, especially its theatres. Invariably known primarily for its university—noted by Coryat and Moryson, a tourist attraction for Chaucer, Sidney, and Milton—the name “Padua” became synonymous with “erudition.” While learnedness was in theory a positive quality, the place of learnedness in a declining honor culture and its complex role in constituting masculinity remained a contentious subject. English writers by turns envied or scorned the learning acquired in Italy, and invocations of Padua and its link to rapier fencing resulted in a series of contradictory figures in the drama of Shakespeare and Webster: doctors, pedants, enlightened philosophers, lovers, murderers for hire.

KEYWORDS: Shakespeare; Webster; Jonson; Padua; Italy; university; fencing; masculinity; honor. “Le conocí en Padua”: El teatro de “Conheci-o em Pádua”: O teatro de Londres y las construcciones de la Londres e as construções da erudição na erudición en la temprana edad moderna idade proto-moderna RESUMEN: Este artículo examina un as- RESUMO: Este artigo examina um aspeto pecto del tráfico cultural de ida y vuelta do tráfico cultural mútuo entre Londres e entre Londres y Padua: cómo la ciudad Pádua: como Pádua aparecia nos debates de Padua aparecía en debates acerca de la sobre a natureza da masculinidade em naturaleza de la masculinidad en el Londres na idade proto-moderna, especi- Londres de la edad moderna, especial- almente nos seus teatros. Conhecida mente en sus teatros. Conocida princi- principalmente pela sua universidade— palmente por su universidad—de presti- reconhecida por Coryat e Moryson, uma

Sederi gio para Coryat y Moryson, una atracción atração turística para Chaucer, Sidney e turística para Chaucer, Sidney y Milton—o nome “Pádua” converteu-se Milton— el nombre “Padua” se convirtió num sinónimo de erudição. Embora a en sinónimo de erudición. Aunque la erudição fosse, em teoria, uma qualidade erudición era, en teoría, una cualidad positiva, a sua posição numa cultura de positiva, su posición dentro de una honra em declínio e o seu papel com- cultura del honor en declive y su plexo na constituição da masculinidade complejo papel en la constitución de la permaneceram um tema polémico. Os masculinidad seguían siendo un tema escritores ingleses invejavam ou escarne- polémico. Los escritores ingleses ciam à vez o saber adquirido em Itália, e envidiaban y desdeñaban a la vez el menções a Pádua e à sua relação com a aprendizaje adquirido en Italia, y las esgrima com florete resultaram numa menciones a Padua y su vínculo con la série de figuras contraditórias no teatro esgrima con estoque dieron lugar a una de Shakespeare e de Webster: doutores, serie de figuras contradictorias en el pedantes, filósofos iluminados, amantes e teatro de Shakespeare y Webster: docto- assassinos a soldo. res, pedantes, filósofos ilustrados, aman- PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Shakespeare; Webster; tes, asesinos a sueldo. Jonson; Pádua; Itália; universidade; PALABRAS CLAVE: Shakespeare; Webster; esgrima; masculinidade; honra. *** Jonson; Padua; Italia; universidad; es- grima; masculinidad; honor.**

For Shakespeare and his generation, the name “Italy” conjured contradictory images of rich cultural origins, cynical political philosophy, heroic action, treachery and deceit, romantic love, and threatening Catholicism, among others.1 The early modern English tropes of “Italy” proceeded in large part from cultural envy—envy of the deep well of Italian culture and history—but also from envy’s inverse, a sense of cultural inferiority, of somehow losing the national identity of “Englishness”; this cultural anxiety was often projected outwards, turning Italy into a threatening other. Nevertheless, the grand tour of many Englishmen in the early modern period usually included Italy, especially Venice and Rome, as has been well documented (Stoye 1989; Chaney and Wilks 2014). For many writers, the journey also included a stop in Padua,2 from

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Chaucer, who may have met Petrarch there (Gray 2012),3 and Sir Philip Sidney, who preferred Padua to Venice,4 to John Milton, who passed through Padua in 1639, and who had met Padua’s most famous scientist, Galileo, on an earlier trip (though the meeting was in Florence).5 Thomas Hoby studied in Padua to “obtain the Italian tung” with which he would later translate Castiglione’s The Courtier (Hoby 1902, 8; Bartlett 2006, 125–26). Shakespeare, too, repeatedly travelled to Padua… in his imagination—though some have claimed an actual trip (Roe 2011). Meticulous scholarship, however, has detailed how Shakespeare, like most Englishmen, gained his knowledge of Italy. In the first wave of this scholarship, his direct, actual knowledge of specific texts and authors was explored in depth. Whether through circulating unpublished manuscripts, mediated texts of contemporaries such as William Painter, or through his own perhaps limited capacity to read Italian (or French versions of it), Shakespeare was acquainted with the works of a surprising number of Italian writers.6 In more recent work, however, a fruitful and wide-ranging intertextual approach has been prominent. Michael J. Redmond (2009, 2) has argued that “Italy was synonymous with intertextuality in early modern English culture,” while Keir Elam (2004a) simply titled his review article in a collection of essays, “Italy as intertext.” Whatever the source of his information, Shakespeare often had the Veneto in general in mind, with Verona and Venice, as well as Padua, the location of other early plays (most famously, the setting for The Taming of the Shrew7); indeed, in the Folio text of The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Speed even bids Lance “welcome to Padua,” when they seem to be in Milan.8

Venice and Rome were by far the most fully described and imagined Italian cities—the first for its interlinked elements of power, commerce, and sex; the latter for its past Roman glories and present Papal authority—and both possessed a political and religious power that Padua never achieved. Nevertheless, the name “Padua” was also a complex signifier of considerable cultural weight, and it was frequently invoked in specific contexts. The city’s link with early modern London was substantial—both material (there were many travelers in both directions, from merchants, religious refugees, diplomats, and language teachers to actors) as well as virtual, or discursive. For Shakespeare and most of his audience, “Padua”—both a real place and a cultural construct—was, above all, a symbol of erudition. The city’s name usually evoked one or both of two related associations: the famous university, and the city’s fencing schools. Its university was consistently mentioned by English travelers. When he wasn’t chatting up Venetian prostitutes, for example, Thomas Coryat spent three days in Padua in 1608, noting its 1500 university students. He said that “more students of forraine and remote nations doe live in Padua, then in any one University of Christendome” (Coryat 1905, 1.297), while Fynes Moryson described the university as “third for antiquity, but cheefe for dignity,” known especially for its excellence in medicine, mathematics, and music (1967, 430, 433). In his Second Frutes of 1591, John Florio identified various Italian cities with a single characteristic: Venice was ricca (rich), for example, Genoa superba (proud), and Florence bella (fair), while “Padova dotta” (“Padoa learned”) (1591, 108–109).9 Samuel Lewkenor, in his review of the universities of Europe in 1600, praised the world amazing glorie of her [Padua’s] farre renowned Academie, which in fame and dignitie surmounting all other Italian Universities, is as it were an other Athenian Areopage, which hath alwayes carefully nourished, and studiously brought up men excellently learned in the liberall sciences. (Lewkenor 1600, I3v)

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The most casual allusions to the city invariably referenced the university, and by extension, learning per se.10 As a result, “Padua” became the code word for many types of erudition. When Portia disguises herself as Balthazar to preside over Shylock’s trial in The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare invokes the specialized erudition of legal knowledge by certifying her (or his) expertise in letters come from Bellario, “a learned doctor” from “Padua” (4.1.105, 109).11 In The Taming of the Shrew, Padua is full of schoolmasters (and those pretending to be such) and students. Lucentio is typical in that he has come to Padua from Florence to “haply institute|A course of learning and ingenious studies” (1.1.8– 9), to “suck,” as his servant Tranio continues, “the sweets of sweet philosophy,” but, Tranio hopes, not to follow too rigorously the local “virtue and […] moral discipline” (1.1.28, 30). A second, related aspect of Padua’s reputation for knowledge is indicated in Moryson’s further comments on the city: “Padoa affordeth also most skillfull masters and teachers to Fence. So as the desyre to learne these vertues and qualityes, drawes many native and forragne gentlemen to spend some tyme in this university” (434). Montaigne visited the city in 1580–1581, but his travel journal never mentions the university at all; rather, he and his scribe “saw the schools of fencing, dancing, and equitation, at which more than a hundred French gentlemen were at this time seeking instruction” (Montaigne 1903, 2.10). Indeed, there often seemed little distinction between the university itself and the city’s fencing schools. In Second Frutes, Florio’s dialogue describes at length the qualities of an Italian gentleman—a “Padoan”—whose fencing skill with rapier and

dagger (“most gentleman-like weapons”) is the quintessence of his virtues (Florio 1591, 116–19). The topos of erudition, both of the university and the fencing schools, resulted in a series of contradictory figures associated with Padua, as we will see: enlightened philosophers, humanist scholars, lovers, pedants, murderers for hire. I will proceed here by examining several gentlemen who came from, or were said to have studied and lived, in Padua, and consider their real and symbolic connections to cultural debates in early modern London and their representations on the London stage from the 1590s through 1620—beginning with the gentleman from Padua to whom Florio refers above, “master V. S.” (117), or Vincentio Saviolo, the famous fencing teacher from Padua who lived and practiced in London, and who had also studied fencing in Spain (Aylward 1956, 51). Around 1590, Saviolo had taken over a fencing school established in 1576 in Blackfriars by another Italian, Rocco Benetti, one of whose patrons was Sir Walter Raleigh.12 Following the 1594 translation into English of Giacomo di Grassi’s True Art of Defence, a highly technical how-to manual, Saviolo’s 1595 work, Vincentio Saviolo his Practice was the best-known and most important statement of the Italian fencing method and, equally important, its relation to the concept of honor. Saviolo— Florio said that he “looks like Mars himselfe” (Florio 1591, 117)— offered the possibility that a man “small of stature and weake of strength, may with a little removing of his foot, a sodain turning of his hand, a slight declining of his bodie, subdue and overcome the fierce braving pride of tall and strong bodies” (B1v); indeed “courage and strength […] are nothing except [a man] have knowledge or arte” (C3v). Ultimately, Saviolo claims, “the more skill a man hath of his weapon the more gentle and curteous should he shewe himselfe, for in truth this is rightly the honour of a brave Gentleman, and so much the more is hee to bee esteemed” (C4v). In passages such as this, Saviolo reflects an ongoing crisis within the early modern honor culture, as Lawrence Stone (1961) and Mervyn James (1986) among others have described. As early as 1583, Sir Thomas Smith had noted that

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whosoever studieth the lawes of the realme, who studieth in the universities, who professeth liberall sciences, and to be shorte, who can live idly and without manuall labour, and will beare the port, charge and countenanunce of a gentleman […] shall be taken for a gentleman. (Smith 1583, 27) The entire debate is neatly encapsulated in the title of a 1600 reprint of a 1595 work translated from the Italian: A Discourse Whether a Noble Man by Birth or a Gentleman by desert is greater in Nobilitie.13 Sir George Buck, James I’s Master of the Revels, complained that the sons of “merchants, tradesmen or artificers” and others of humble birth “can be made gentleman” simply by admission to an “inne of court,” whereas, for Buck, “no man can be made gentleman but by his father” (1615, 969). The old idea of nobility through birth, in a long process of decay, gave way to an emerging concept, which Saviolo exemplifies, in which art rather than nature, and erudition (in part) rather than mere blood, became the hallmarks of masculine worth. Saviolo at one point meditates on this transformation: What is become of the gentilitie and inbredde courtesie of auncient noble Gentlemen? where is the magnanimitye of the honourable Knightes of fore-going times, whose vertues as they are recorded in histories wherin we read of them, so ought to have beene lefte to their posteritye, that in them we might see the image (now forgotten) of auncient true Nobilitye? But since all thinges fall to decaye, it is no mervaile though virtue (I speake with all due reverence and favour) bee not found but in few: for surelye there be many in whome nothing remaineth but the bare tytle of nobilitye, in that they be Gentlemen borne: who in their manners wholy degenerate from their auncestors, and make no account either of honour or dishonour, giving themselves to such pleasures, as their unbrideled appetite leadeth them unto. (O4r) A man’s natural inferiority can be overcome by his knowledge, Saviolo demonstrated, and thus at least one aspect of gentility may be performed rather than merely inherited. English conduct manuals agreed, as in Richard Brathwait’s The English Gentleman, which

featured a long section on education, “the Seasoner or instructresse of Youth” (1630, L2r), as one of the key characteristics of gentility. Henry Peacham, too, in his Compleat Gentleman, has a long chapter on “the dignitie and necessity of Learning in Princes and Nobilitie,” arguing that “Since Learning […] is an essentiall part of Nobilitie […] for whatsoever dependeth on the culture of the mind; it followeth, that who is nobly borne, and a Scholler withall, deserveth double Honour” (Peacham 1622, D3v). English opposition to Saviolo and his new-fangled non-English methods was most vociferous in George Silver’s Paradoxes of Defence of 1599, in which he mocked both the jargon—“o you Italian teachers of Defence, where are your Stocatas, Imbrocatas, Mandritas, Puntas, & Puynta reversas, Stramisons, Passatas, Carricados, Amazzas, & Incartatas [?]” (H4r)—and, as Elam has shown in an important essay, lamented the emasculation and effeminizing of the male body produced (or imagined) by English adoptions of Italian fashions of fencing, clothing, and language, leading to what Elam slyly calls “a form of poniard envy” (Elam 2004b, 33). Silver touted instead solid, traditional masculine English virtues, as represented by the broadsword and buckler—weapons that were inevitably class- inflected as “low”14—to counteract the fact that “we like degenerate sonnes, have forsaken our forefathers vertues with their weapons, and have lusted like men sicke of a strange ague, after the strange vices and devises of Italian, French and Spanish Fencers” (A4v). Nothing, Silver argued, is more destructive of English manhood than the “Italian teachers of Defence […] [who propagate] these Italianated, weake, fantasticall, and most divellish and imperfect fights” (B1r). In another passage (also quoted by Elam 2004b), Silver laments that the Italian teachers of Offence […] have transformed our boyes into men, and our men into boyes, our strong men into weakenesse, our valiant men doubtfull, and manie worthie men resolving themselves upon their false resolutions, have most wilfully in the field, with their Rapiers ended their lives. (I1r) The technology of fencing, then, became one of the several contested discursive sites on which English masculinity was constructed.

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Italian rapier fencing, as exemplified by the Padovan Saviolo, was simultaneously dangerous and inadequate, endowing the weak with unnatural power (because the rapier was so much more dangerous than a broadsword) but also making them vulnerable to attack, turning boys into men—which one would think a desirable power— but also turning men into boys. The phallic language of swords, rapiers, pikes, and so on reflects the contradictions and anxieties of masculinity at the time. Both Saviolo and Silver, to close off this point, described the location of fencing practice as a “school” or “academy,” and for both writers the expert fencers were termed “masters” and those training were “scholars.” Fencing knowledge therefore was erudition. “Padua” as a symbol of learning, good and bad, was thus frequently deployed into much larger debates about the nature of noble identity: in some cases, erudition could supplant rather than merely supplement an essential quality; in brief, erudition could produce a performance, or imitation of nobility. Like any aspect of conduct or manners, however, the skill or technology could be abused, and no imported skill seemed more controversial or subject to ridicule than rapier fencing and its pretensions to a specialized knowledge. Many early modern plays echo Silver in their mockery of Saviolo’s rich Italianate jargon, such as Armado’s complaints in Love’s Labour’s Lost that Cupid “the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not” (1.2.172–73) or Mercutio’s mockery—“the immortal passado! The punto reverso!” (2.4.25–26) of Tybalt’s affectations in Romeo and Juliet;15 Jonson would incarnate the comic aspects of such knowledge in the character of Bobadilla in Every Man in His Humour (see below). One pamphlet typically warned that “although indeede some be excellently learned [in Italy], yet are they all given to counterfeit learning […]. For from a Tapster upwards, they are all discoursers in certain matters and qualities; as Horsmanship, [and] weapons” (Profitable 1633, H1v– H2r). The dangers of rapier fencing, on the other hand, were detailed at length by Silver and others. As Brathwait warned, “For fence-play, I have knowne some puffed up with a presumption of skill, to have

beene too apt in giving offence,” overcome by ambition and vainglory, even perishing in their self-over-estimation (1630, Dd3r). Shakespeare identifies one gentleman, in Much Ado About Nothing, as “Signor Benedick of Padua” (1.1.34). But why is Benedick from Padua?16 The play’s action takes place in Messina, and Benedick has somehow made it over 1250 kilometers down the peninsula without any explanation; nor is there even a hint of Benedick as a character in the probable sources of the Claudio-Hero story, such as Bandello’s novella of Timbreo and Fenicia, or in Munday’s 1585 play, Fedele and Fortunio . . a very pleasaunt and fine conceited Comoedie, of two Italian Gentlemen (Bullough 1956, 2.112–34 and 2.134–39). Much Ado is dated around 1598 or early 1599 (McEachern 2006, 125–28), after Saviolo’s pamphlet and just before Silver’s response, a conjunction that explains why, even before he is identified as from Padua, that Beatrice refers to him with a different name: “I pray you, is Signor Mountanto returned from the wars or no?” (1.1.29–30). While the Arden Two and Three, New Cambridge, and Oxford editions all offer substantial glosses of “mountanto” as a fencing term for an upward thrust, and the latter three as an elaborate, possibly self-betraying sexual joke by Beatrice, who may have been “mounted” by Benedick at one time17 and in any event mocks his swordsmanship, in all senses, none of these editions makes the obvious connection to affected fencing and Padua. Shakespeare quite deliberately links Benedick to Padua not only for his fencing and wit, then, but also because he will be the only man in the play to learn how to change. Benedick, Beatrice mocks, once “set up his bills here in Messina and challenged Cupid at the flight; and my uncle’s fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid and challenged him at the bird-bolt” (1.1.37–40); like the cowardly fencers Silver describes, or the cowardly would-be duelist Andrew Aguecheek in Twelfth Night,

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Benedick, she implies, may be all talk and no action, his affected challenge received only by a fool, with the result that he is “no less than a stuffed man” (1.1.55–56). “The gentleman,” the messenger in the scene concludes, “is not in your books,” to which Beatrice replies, “An he were, I would burn my study” (1.1.73–75). By the end of the play, however, Benedick will offer a deadly serious challenge to Claudio. Benedick eventually comes to his senses, tricked by his colleagues into admitting or allowing his love for Beatrice; his transformation is anticipated in Beatrice’s comment, after hearing of Don John’s “melancholy disposition”: “He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway between him and Benedick. The one is too like an image and says nothing, and the other too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore tattling” (2.1.5–9). Benedick remains infantilized and effeminized, then, a boy, a “lady’s oldest son,” not a man. Much of Much Ado’s plot, however, shows noble gentlemen behaving badly. The noblemen of the play have proven their worth in war but the women of Messina are subordinated to them in the most stereotypical sexist ways—Hero’s worth seems entirely constituted by her chastity, to take but one example, and the lords treat her and her father badly. Here Shakespeare makes another critical transformation in his source material in order to rescue the nobility who disgrace themselves: he turns Bandello’s villain in the source narrative—who was a “young knight of noble family named Sir Girondo Olerio Valenziano, who had proved himself a doughty warrior in the wars and was also one of the most splendid and liberal members of the Court” (Bullough 1956, 2.114)—into Don John, “the Bastard” (1.1.90.2sd), an ironic and appropriate identity in a play so consumed with male anxiety over cuckoldry. Not “noble” in his lineage, then, Don John becomes the play’s scapegoat for masculine aggression and ignoble action. The other noblemen’s masculine identity is thus decontaminated by the play’s end, when Don John is exposed and punished, while Claudio is forgiven. Finally, when Beatrice asks Benedick to “Kill Claudio,” and he resists, her mockery indicts all the noblemen as effeminized, in terms that might remind us of George Silver’s lament: O, that I were a man for his sake! Or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into curtsies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones,

too. He is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. (4.1.316–21)18 Leonato and his brother, in challenging Claudio, rehearse again the critique that Silver had articulated: “I’ll prove it on his body if he dare,|Despite his nice fence and his active practice […]. I’ll whip you from your foining fence,|Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will” (5.1.74– 75, 84–85). Leonato’s brother describes Claudio and Don Pedro as “Scambling, outfacing, fashionmonging boys” (5.1.95), not men. Benedick had much in common with the other men at the beginning of the play, but by now has learned that “In a false quarrel there is no true valor” (5.1.121), and he has come to challenge both. By the end of the play, Benedick’s wit is, as Margaret says, “as blunt as the fencer’s foils, which hit but hurt not,” to which he says, “I give thee the bucklers” (5.2.13–14, 16–17). Silver’s defense of sword and buckler against the fencer’s foil turns here into yet another series of erotic jokes turning on the potency of men’s “swords” (18) and “pikes” (21). I don’t want to overstate the significance of the debate about fencing within the full text of Much Ado, a rich and complex play; but Shakespeare repeatedly links the play’s interrogation of masculinity and nobility with traces of this discourse, and Benedick’s origin in Padua and his association with fencing and learning are essential traits. At about the same time as Much Ado, Ben Jonson’s Every Man in His Humour (1598) gave the world Bobadilla, the cowardly braggart who takes a beating rather than defend himself; Jonson originally set the play in Italy—in Florence—in the 1601 Quarto, but revised it to London in the 1616 Folio. In the Quarto, Lorenzo Junior (=Edward Knowell in F) expresses his disgust in terms that Silver would have approved: “‘Sblood, an’ these be your tricks, your passados and your montantos, I’ll none of them. Oh, God! That this age should bring forth such creatures!” (4.2.118–20Q; 4.6.132–36F). Jonson also compares Bobadilla to “that fencing Burgullian” (3.5.15Q/F), an allusion to a notorious Burgundian fencer, John Barrose, who according to John Stow had “chalenged all the Fencers of England”

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(Stow 1605, 1308);19 he was hanged outside Ludgate on 10 July 1598 for killing an officer who had arrested him for debt. A few months later, on 22 September 1598, while Every Man In was probably still playing at the Curtain Theatre, with Shakespeare listed in Jonson’s Folio as one of the actors, Jonson was indicted at Shoreditch on a charge of manslaughter, having killed the actor Gabriel Spencer in a duel. Jonson later told William Drummond that Spencer had challenged him (“appealed to the fields”), and that Spencer’s “sword was ten inches longer than his” (one of the dangers of the rapier that Silver would warn about). Spencer had “hurt him [Jonson] in the arm” before being overcome; for this offence Jonson “was imprisoned, and almost at the gallows” (Donaldson 1985, 600, ll. 200–4), and branded on the thumb as a convicted felon.20 In the Quarto, finally, Doctor Clement is described as “the gonfaloniere of the state here, an excellent rare civilian, and a great scholar […]. I have heard many of his jests in Padua” (3.2.44–51Q); in the 1616 Folio text, “Padua” was revised simply to “the university” (3.2.258F), the two terms by now synonymous. Shakespeare’s most famous university student, Hamlet, would two or three years later be suitably cautious before his final duel with Laertes, who had been trained in “rapier” by a “Norman” fencer—the ominously named “Lamord” (4.7.91–99). Offered the rapiers to choose among, Hamlet warily asks, “These foils have all a length?” (5.2.263).21 In spite of its European-wide reputation for education and profound knowledge, then, Padua’s university and its alter ego, the fencing school, also seemed to some English writers to produce pedantry and folly, and sometimes much worse, as we will see in a moment. George Chapman, for example, regularly invoked the signifying power of the name “Padua” in his comedies as a foolish or curdled pedantry. The scheming, duplicitous Rinaldo in All Fools

(printed 1605) is a malcontent “younger son” whom the garrulous fool Gostanzo praises to his father: “You have a younger son at Padua,|I like his learning well,” and foolishly advises him, “Make him your heir,|And let your other [son] walk” (1.1.316–18). In May Day (printed 1611), Chapman’s Quintiliano, a notorious swindler, cheats the naïve and foolish Giovanello, “a Freshman come from Padua” to Venice “to see fashions,” snapping up this “excellent morsel” (2.1.536–39, 626). Despite praising him as “a fine Ciceronian” (2.1.682), Quintiliano nevertheless cons him of five pounds with a further insult: “let the scholar report at Padua that Venice has other manner of learning belongs to it. What does his Continuum et Contiguum here? Let ‘em go to the ink-pot and beware of the wine-pot” (4.1.13–17). In The Gentleman Usher (printed 1606), the pedant Sarpego (his name probably puns on “serpigo,” a skin disease) reads his awful poem to the unnamed Italian court, to which the Prince remarks “No inkhorn ever did bring forth the like” (1.1.192). Sarpego boasts that “I can both act and teach|To any words. When I in Padua school’d it,|I play’d in one of Plautus’ comedies,|Namely Curculio, where his part I acted,|Projecting from the poor sum of four lines|Forty fair actions” (1.1.197–202). Curculio is the pedant in Plautus’s play of the same name; the word “curculio” means grain-worm, or weevil, hence he is figuratively as well as structurally a parasite. While Chapman had fought in the Netherlands, there is no evidence that he ever traveled to Padua, but he certainly knew of its reputation, both positive and negative (Eccles 1946; Burnett 2006). In a much darker vein of allusion, the wise shepherd in Brian Melbancke’s 1583 euphuistic novel Philotimus says that I was somtimes a scholler in Padua, where I tooke such pains as became a student, and reaped scarse the gaines of a slothfull trewant. When I had taken some degrees, my courage was enhaunced with a loftie conceite, but when I learned by experience abroad, how course account was made of learning, I was daunted with a selie confusion. Then did I learne that it was easier for a swashbuckler, with his blasphemous othes to come to credit and estimation, then for a poore sielie scholler with all his witte and learning, to reape one penye profit or commoditie. I lived abroad with slender diot, and was mocked abroad as a sottish idiot, I tooke Sederi

paines for the weale publicke, but was rewarded slenderly with private wealth. (Colby 1969, 306)22 The learning and erudition of “Fair Padua” could therefore signify not only a “loftie conceite” and “nursery of arts” but also the stereotypical plodding pedant or the jabbering of fencer’s language, and even, as we will see, a nursery of alienation and evil. Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus had shown the dangers of knowledge, and Faustus, too, had traveled to “Padua” (8.16). One of the twinned murder plots of Robert Yarington’s 1601 Two Lamentable Tragedies takes place “Neere Padua […]. By a false Uncle, on his brothers sonne,|Left to his carefull education,|By dying Parents […] Looke for no mirth, unlesse you take delight,|In mangled bodies, and in gaping wounds,|Bloodily made by mercy wanting hands” (A3r). If the years 1595–1605 reflected considerable English interest in rapier fencing, linked to Padua as a cultural symbol of learning and/or pedantry, the period following to 1618 registers a rapidly deepening concern, including King James’s, over the violence of the rapier duel and the extreme concept of honor that led many members of the nobility into deadly combat.23 The comic duels seen in As You Like It, with Touchstone’s 7 stages of lying, and in Twelfth Night,24 had given way to real bloodshed. After a series of notable deaths in 1613—including challenges by Sir Edward Sackville, Francis Lord Norris, Grey Lord Chandos, Robert Earl of Essex and others (Stone 1965, 242–50)—King James issued a series of

proclamations in 1613 (one 119 pages long) seeking to curb deadly rapier duels (and, as a side benefit, de-militarize the aristocracy),25 and Middleton and Rowley cashed in a few years later with a play— A Fair Quarrel—that features a series of honor-challenges, some for trivial causes, culminating in a near-fatal rapier duel between Captain Ager and the Colonel (see Low 2003, 108–18). And in 1618, Middleton published The Peacemaker, repeating the arguments James had already made in print and fulsomely praising him; Middleton complains that “the compounding of Quarrels is growne to a Trade […] there be some Councell learned of Duells […] incite [young men] to the Duell, and make an Art of it […] so much Noble and Gentle bloud shall be spilt upon such Follies” (D1v–D2r). In the same year, the anonymous author of Swetnam the Woman-Hater (1618; printed 1620) (Crandall 1969) had his cowardly protagonist hide from his pursuers by changing his name and opening a fencing school where he will teach “the very mysterie of Fencing,” including the “Puncto” (1.2.97–98, 74). Some gentlemen suffered considerably from their experiences in Padua, as we have seen, showing the dark shadow of knowledge that destroys its subjects, of erudition breaking bad, such as a gentleman in John Webster’s 1612 play The White Devil. As he works to place his sister Vittoria with Duke Brachiano, Flamineo mocks her witless husband Camillo as An excellent scholar—one that hath a head filled with calves’ brains without any sage in them—come crouching in the hams to you for a night’s lodging—that hath an itch in’s hams […] Is he not a courtly gentleman?—When he wears white satin one would take him by his black muzzle to be no other creature than a maggot (1.2.123–29). It takes one to know one, of course. When their scheme is interrupted and condemned by Cornelia, mother to Flamineo and Vittoria, Flamineo bitterly vents the story of his life, saying to his mother: I would fain know where lies the mass of wealth Which you have hoarded for my maintenance, That I may bear my beard out of the level

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Of my lord’s stirrup...... Pray what means have you To keep me from the galleys, or the gallows? My father proved himself a gentleman, Sold all’s land, and like a fortunate fellow Died ere the money was spent. You brought me up, At Padua I confess, where I protest, For want of means (the university judge me) I have been fain to heel my tutor’s stockings At least seven years. Conspiring with a beard Made me a graduate, then to this Duke’s service; I visited the court, whence I returned— More courteous, more lecherous by far, But not a suit the richer—and shall I, Having a path so open and so free To my preferment, still retain your milk In my pale forehead? No, this face of mine I’ll arm and fortify with lusty wine ’Gainst shame and blushing. (1.2.293–314) Flamineo’s story is typical in Jacobean drama: a family history of gentility, land-poor and now destitute, the hopes of courtly preferment dashed as he is now merely Brachiano’s secretary, and soon his pander. The path to this disappointment led through the university at Padua, where Flamineo, for all his cunning, was already reduced to a parasitical existence doing menial tasks for his tutor, and was either a poor student—receiving his degree after seven years by simply reaching a particular age—or he “conspire[ed]” with some senior insider to get his degree. Either way, Flamineo displays contempt for erudition, at least as it is embodied in the foolish husband Camillo: “Will you be an ass|Despite your Aristotle, or a cuckold [?]” (1.2.64–65). In The Taming of the Shrew, Tranio also dismisses the relevance of Aristotle to his master Lucentio’s mission: […] while we do admire This virtue and this moral discipline, Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray, Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured […] No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en. In brief, sir, study what you most affect. (Shrew 1.1.29–33, 39–40)

In comedy, setting Padua’s erudition aside in the name of “pleasure” has no serious consequences, as licentious Ovid displaces Aristotle’s “checks,” or self-restraint. In Webster’s tragedy, however, there is nothing to rein in the diseased will, once moral philosophy has been pushed aside. Flamineo learned only the corruptions of status and self-aggrandizement at the university. The final scenes of The White Devil, as in the sources, take place entirely in Padua, enacting the corruption of the court and its subversion of the ideals of nobility at savage length. When his villainy is exposed and he is captured, Flamineo mocks Lodovico’s “idle questions”: “I am i’th’way to study a long silence.|To prate were idle—I remember nothing.|There’s nothing of so infinite vexation|As man’s own thoughts” (5.6.198–202), and as he nears the moment of death he denies knowledge and philosophical questions altogether: “I do not look|Who went before, nor who shall follow me;|No, at myself I will begin and end:|‘While we look up to heaven we confound|Knowledge with knowledge’. O, I am in a mist” (5.6.252–56).26 He dies shortly thereafter. Yet even in his death throes, Flamineo remains a student from the city of fencing schools, as he asks his murderers about their weapons, “O what blade is’t?|A Toledo or an English fox?” (5.6.230–31)—that is, a rapier made of the famed Spanish steel, or a cruder English short sword.27 On the boundary of death, Flamineo’s question is quite literally academic. Webster invented almost everything about Flamineo, whose sole mention in Webster’s sources comes in one of the Fugger News-letters: at “2 o’clock at night […] [Vittoria’s] palace in Padua was found open. Fifty well-armed men thereupon entered and cruely shot the

Sederi brother of the Signora Accaramboni, a certain Duke Flaminio, as to the lady, they stabbed her where they found her at prayer” (Webster 1995, 1.373–74). “Near on six hundred” enraged citizens of Padua crying out for justice enacted their own revenge on the murderers; two of Vittoria’s servants, who opened the palace to the murderers, “were riven asunder with red-hot tongs, and killed with a hammer and then quartered,” while two of Bracchiano’s advisers were “secretly strangled,” three others “torn to pieces by the mob as they were firing upon the house” and twenty others probably hanged (1.375). So much for the reign of justice and law in Padua. Certainly Webster transformed and transplanted some of the savagery of the full story into the rich character of Flamineo, whose education in Padua soured his nature and prompted his alienation. Yet another gentleman of Padua, and a close literary cousin to Flamineo, is Webster’s Bosola in The Duchess of Malfi (1612–1613). Antonio announces his entrance in the play and describes him as The only court-gall; yet I observe his railing Is not for simple love of piety, Indeed he rails at those things which he wants, Would be as lecherous, covetous, or proud, Bloody, or envious, as any man, If he had means to be so. (1.1.23–28) When Delio confirms that Bosola had been “seven years in the galleys,|For a notorious murder” suborned by the Cardinal, Antonio concludes ’Tis great pity He should be thus neglected, I have heard He’s very valiant. This foul melancholy Will poison all his goodness. (1.1.68–69, 73–76) How did Bosola come to this condition of alienation, melancholy, and envy? Delio later relates Bosola’s history, and many in the audience might already have guessed it: I knew him in Padua, a fantastical scholar, like such who study to know how many knots was in Hercules’ club, of what colour Achilles’ beard was, or whether Hector were not troubled with the tooth-ache. He hath studied himself half blear-eyed to know the true symmetry of Caesar’s nose by a shoeing-horn, and this he did to gain the name of a speculative man. (3.3.40–46)

Such figures reflect Jacobean realities of thwarted intellectuals and ambitious noblemen; as Lord Chancellor Ellesmere put it in 1611, “we have more need of better livings for learned men than of more learned men for these livings, for learning without living doth but breed traitors as common experience too well sheweth” (qtd. Curtis 2015, 193).28 In Bosola, once again Webster has almost totally invented his villain and his warped university career, who in the sources is simply a name: when one man hired to murder Antonio hesitates, according to William Painter’s translation of Belleforest’s adaptation of Matteo Bandello’s narrative, it chaunced that a Lombarde of larger conscience than the other, invegled with Covetousness, and hired for readie money, practised the death of the Duchesse pore husband. This bloudy beast was called Daniel de Bozola that had charge of a certaine bande of footemen in Millan. This newe Iudas and assured manqueller […] secretly conveyed himself in ambush (Webster 1995, 1.704), and murdered Antonio. In both of his great plays, from the slightest of references in his sources, Webster fabricated his complex villains into disappointed graduates of the university of Padua, its great humanist ideals deformed into a dark, savage alienation and a deconstruction of earlier ideals of nobility and masculinity. Both of Webster’s villains, moreover, are sexually warped, loners who are voyeuristically attached to but alienated from vibrant, powerful women whose sexuality has led to their tragic fates. Webster himself never traveled to Padua (or anywhere in Italy), but he dramatically exploited its contradictory significations.29

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Bosola’s erudition, gained at Padua, curdled into triviality and curiosity. His satiric thrusts at the court and courtiers are not “for simple love of piety,” for virtue’s sake; rather, as Antonio says, “he rails at those things which he wants,” just as English writers mocked or condemned in their own representations of Padua what they actually envied and desired. In one of the play’s great verbal ironies, Bosola finds his role serving Ferdinand to be that of “a very quaint invisible devil in flesh:|An intelligencer” (1.1.253–54) or spy; the word and its variants ricochet through the play, the word most venomously invoked in Antonio’s summary of the Cardinal: “he strews in his way flatterers, panders, intelligencers, atheists, and a thousand such political monsters” (1.1.156–58).30 Like Flamineo, Bosola’s aspirations, also undermined at the university, have declined from intelligence to intelligencer, humanist education transformed into aggression and violence. In The White Devil, Francisco says of the Cardinal “It is reported you possess a book|Wherein you have quoted, by intelligence,|The names of all the notorious offenders|Lurking about the city” (4.1.29–32)—now, the book of Padua is not by Erasmus or Aristotle but a black book of betrayal.31 Like Flamineo, Bosola also dies “In a mist” (5.5.93). In the final bloodbath, Bosola has wielded a “sword”—of “Justice” (5.5.38–39), in his mind—and mocks the dying Cardinal with an exquisite pun on his sword’s “point” or tip: “I do glory|That thou, which stood’st like a huge pyramid|Begun upon a large and ample base,|Shalt end in a little point, a kind of nothing” (5.5.75–78). “Nothing” is the end to which Bosola also arrives: the Aristotelian ideal of virtuous behavior has fallen away, as Bosola says in his first words: “Miserable age, where only the reward|Of doing well is the doing of it!” (1.1.31–32). Later, as he deceives the Duchess, he ironically reassures her “No question but many an unbeneficed scholar|Shall pray for you, for this deed, and rejoice|That some preferment in the world can yet|Arise from merit” (3.2.279–82)—a moral lesson devoutly to be wished, once taught in Fair Padua, nursery of arts,

but too soon twisted into its opposite, in the corruptions of the Jacobean court projected upon the name of “Padua.” At first a positive signifier of learning in early modern London, the name “Padua” also eventually incarnated some of the corruptions of London. Thus, the home of the great university also became the graveyard of erudition, its scholars and fencers squandering their learning in self-destructive actions.

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How to cite this article: Carroll, William C. “’I knew him in Padua’: London theatre and early modern constructions of erudition.” SEDERI 28 (2018): 7–32. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Boston University – English – 236 Bay State Road – Boston, MA 02215 – United States Submission: 14/06/2017 Acceptance: 16/08/2017

El príncipe tirano by Juan de la Cueva as the Spanish source of Thomas Lodge’s A Margarite of America: A comparative suggestion

Tomás Monterrey Universidad de La Laguna, Spain

ABSTRACT Lodge claimed A Margarite of America (1596) was based on a still unidentified “historie in the Spanish tong.” Although several critics have suggested that the romance’s design outlines the structure of a play, the source “historie” has never been sought in the Spanish theatre. This essay proposes Juan de la Cueva’s El príncipe tirano (1583) as the possible Spanish source text of Lodge’s Margarite. After an introduction, the plot is outlined to show, firstly, the romance’s intertextual elements already detected by scholarly criticism and, secondly, others Lodge might have borrowed from El príncipe tirano. This article will supplement current studies on Margarite by shedding new light on the plot and characters.

KEYWORDS: Thomas Lodge; Juan de la Cueva; prose-fiction adaptation of drama; revenge-tragedy; Anglo-Spanish literary relations. El príncipe tirano de Juan de la Cueva El príncipe tirano, de Juan de la Cueva, como fuente española de como fonte espanhola de A Margarite of America de Thomas A Margarite of America, de Thomas Lodge: una aproximación comparada Lodge: uma aproximação comparativa* RESUMEN: Lodge afirmó que A RESUMO: Lodge afirmou que A Margarite Margarite of America (1596) se basaba of America (1596) se baseava numa histó- en una historia en español, que sigue ria em castelhano, que continua por sin ser identificada. Aunque varios identificar. Embora vários críticos tenham críticos han señalado que el diseño del sugerido que o design do romance romance se ajusta a la estructura de descreve a estrutura de uma peça dra- una obra dramática, el texto fuente mática, o texto fonte nunca foi procurado nunca ha sido buscado en el teatro no teatro espanhol. Este artigo propõe El español. Este artículo propone que El príncipe tirano (1583), de Juan de la Cueva, príncipe tirano (1583) de Juan de la como a possível fonte espanhola para Cueva puede ser dicho texto. Tras una Margarite de Lodge. Após uma introdu- introducción, se esboza la trama del ção, apresenta-se um esboço do enredo romance para mostrar, primero, aque- para mostrar, em primeiro lugar, os llos elementos intertextuales que la elementos intertextuais do romance já crítica literaria ya ha identificado y, detetados pela crítica literária e, em segundo, aquellos otros que Lodge segundo lugar, os elementos que Lodge pudo haber tomado de El príncipe pode ter ido buscar a El príncipe tirano.

Sederi tirano. Este artículo aportará una Este artigo traz uma nova perspetiva a nueva perspectiva al estudio de la estudos sobre o enredo e as personagens trama y los personajes de Margarite. de Margarite. PALABRAS CLAVE: Thomas Lodge; PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Thomas Lodge; Juan Juan de la Cueva; adaptación del de la Cueva; adaptação de drama para drama a romance; tragedia de romance; tragédia de vingança; relaçãos venganza; relaciones literarias anglo- literárias anglo-hispânicas. hispanas.

1. Introduction Thomas Cavendish’s five-vessel fleet sailed from Plymouth on the 26th of August 1591, to circumnavigate the world for a second time (Edwards 1988, 23). Thomas Lodge (ca. 1588–1625) traveled on the Leicester, commanded by Cavendish, who described his crew as “the most abject minded and mutinous company that ever was carried out of England by any man living” ([1591–1592] 1988, 56). On Christmas Day, two of the boats attacked Santos (on São Vicente Island, off the coast of São Paulo), while the local community was at church. The Leicester arrived on the following morning. According to Knivet, Cavendish “with many captains and young gentlemen” (Edwards 1988, 84) took residence at the Jesuit College. Lodge must have belonged to this group. During their five-week stay in Santos, he had time to examine the college library books and manuscripts.1 In the preface to A Margarite of America (1596, Margarite henceforth), Lodge claims that: “it was my chance in the librarie of the Jesuits in Sanctum to find this historie in the Spanish tong, which as I read delighted me and delighting me, wonne me, and winning me, made me write it” ([1596] 1980, 42).2 By “historie” he meant fictional history, as he advanced in the dedicatory note to Lady Elizabeth Russell, née Cooke, when he explained that its subject would “seeme historicall” ([1596] 1980, 40). Lodge was more ambiguous about the time of writing. In the dedication, he claims to have composed it in

Sederi the Straits of Magellan, which would make it the first English novel written in the New World; in the preface, he indicates that he only began his work onboard ship with scanty food or “disturbed stomack” ([1596] 1980, 42) and in permanent danger to his life. Therefore, in all likelihood, the novel was finished in England. In fact, Lodge could have written the entire book without leaving London, since no hint, either explicit or implicit, suggests his transatlantic voyage or the horrors experienced in the Straits of Magellan that forced the expedition to return to Brazil, where they faced further disasters and massive casualties.3 The only reference to the New World is “America” in the title, but the character of Margarite is the princess and heiress of Mosco, an empire textually identified with Russia, whereas the villain Prince Arsadachus is the sole heir to the empire of “Cusco,” a name that brings to mind the Incan capital of Peru, but supposedly referred to the Slovakian city of Košice, formerly known as Kaschau or Kassa (Edwards 1988, 48).The romance, however, evokes Greece by opening with the empires of Mosco and Cusco taking arms to fight for the Arcadian city of Mantinea. The general consent among critics is not to disbelieve what Lodge claimed, although the Spanish source of Margarite—a tragic tale of love-treason, disloyalty, revenge and violence—has never been identified either as an extant romance or as a work in consonance with any of the sixteenth-century Spanish “great vogues of the picaresque novel, romances of chivalry, and pastoral romance” (Pollack 1976, 1). Claudette Pollack contended that Lodge’s assertion “is almost certainly a fabrication” (1976, 1) by arguing that, among other reasons, he was simply employing a common practice to attract readers and that Margarite differs completely from the sixteenth-century Spanish novelas. Dale B. J. Randall cautiously declared it “Lodge’s own invention” (1963, 244). For James Addison, Lodge’s last romance represents “a new hybrid genre […], which contains all his previous experimentation” (1980, 35), “a parody of romance” (1980, 32) and “an inversion” (1980, 30) of the euphuistic conventions that culminates Lodge’s progression in experimentation

with the fictional genre. Eliane Cuvelier believes Lodge’s assertion to be either a market stratagem or a red herring—as C. S. Lewis also argued (1968, 424)—that masks his true source, stating that the Spanish text that inspired Lodge was not an original Spanish work but the translation of an Italian tale: “si Lodge s’inspira d’un texte espagnol, celui-ci n’etait pas lui-même une oeuvre originale, mais la traduction d’un conte italien” (1984, 303). Donald Beecher and Henry D. Janzen have described Margarite as “quintessentially Lodge’s own” (2005, 28), affirming that “Lodge needed only consult his former works, in perfect keeping with the humanist cut-and-paste mode for making the old into new” (2005, 32), so that, with respect to the hypothetical Spanish story, they rightly observe that “if one were to subtract from an imagined Spanish original all the many English and Italian components of Margarite, that original would be a bare document indeed” (2005, 28). What kind of “bare document” could Lodge possibly have perused at the library in Santos to inspire his romance? Pollack correctly discarded the existence of fiction books at the library of the Jesuits (1976, 1). Their educational task encompassed both the indoctrination of native Indians and the education of Portuguese colonial children, for whose sake Jesuits expurgated parts of the classical texts and wholly rejected modern romances as potentially pernicious for young readers (Silva 2008, 227–28). However, her assumption that “the library at Santos could not have been extensive and probably consisted mainly of catechisms for the young Indians and books of a more serious theological nature for the priests” (1976, 1) needs reconsideration. Jesuits, finely educated in humanist learning, regarded books as a basic need. Luiz Antonio Gonçalves da Silva’s study of Jesuit libraries in Serafim Leite’s História da Companhia de Jesus no Brasil reveals not only the tenacious policy of intensive book acquisition in the second half of the sixteenth-century (through new members of the Order arriving in Brazil, royal donation, exchange of amber, direct orders, etc.), but also that the needs of the Order covered a great variety of subjects. In addition to catechisms and religious treatises, the Jesuits, as learned members of colonial society, required works on pharmacology and medical practice (some of them in the manner of Lodge’s The Poore Mans Talentt), science, general knowledge and of course literature, both classical and modern. Albeit not comparable with the Jesuit library of Bahia, the college of Santos, located near São Vicente—the Sederi first village founded by the Portuguese in Brazil—must have been relatively well provisioned with books after forty years of Luso- Hispanic presence. Besides, Santos was a flourishing town due to sugar production and trade, which guaranteed permanent maritime commercial traffic with Europe, especially with Lisbon and Seville, from where books were mostly supplied. In this context, it was very unlikely that Lodge would find any Renaissance romance at the Jesuit library of Santos, but he may well have read some other book containing the story classed as “history” in the Renaissance, such as chronicles of America or historical plays. From the first group, La crónica del Perú (1553) by Pedro Cieza de León, and Historia natural y moral de Indias (1590) by the Jesuit José de Acosta have been consulted to no avail.4 Had Lodge read any of them, he would have learned of fresh horrors and unthinkable violence, only comparable to the severe hardships he actually experienced during his voyage with Cavendish. From the second group, the only extant tragedy5 astoundingly similar to the romance is El príncipe tirano (The Tyrant Prince) by Juan de la Cueva. It comprises two original plays: La comedia and La tragedia del príncipe tirano, first printed in Seville in 1583, in Primera parte de las comedias i tragedias de Ivan de la Cveva. Dirigidas a Momo (all of them performed between 1571 and 1581), and reedited in the same city in 1588 as the seventh comedy and the fourth tragedy, respectively, in Primera parte de las comedias y tragedias de Ioan de la Cueua. Dirigidas a Momo.6 The probability that a volume of De la Cueva’s collected plays was stored in Santos should not be overlooked. Firstly, Jesuits were great playwrights. As Alfredo Hermenegildo says, in sixteenth-century Spain “Jesuits and their colleges held the monopoly of religious tragedies and Catholic dramas” (1973, 160; my translation). Secondly, the book could have reached Santos straight from Seville, or from nearer ports of call on the route to America in the Canary

Islands, where Juan de la Cueva lived from 1589 to 1606, accompanying his brother Claudio de la Cueva, who had been appointed inspector general and apostolic inquisitor in this Atlantic archipelago. Critical analyses of Margarite have often suggested that Lodge would have adapted a dramatic story to the genre of the romance. For Addison, it is “similar in many ways to the structure of tragedy” (1980, 28–29) and he adds that “Lodge drew its primary structure from the conventional chivalric romances [… and] added the beginning and ending of Renaissance tragedy” (1980, 29). Cuvelier explicitly describes its structure as a four-act tragedy: “Le récit est celui d’une sanglante tragédie en quatre parties” (1984, 302), and reinforces this idea by introducing her account of the fourth part as the fourth act of the tragedy: “au début du ‘quatrième acte’ de la tragédie” (1984, 302–303). For Beecher and Janzen, “Lodge was clearly in tune with the times in adapting the formulae of revenge tragedy to prose fiction” (2005, 13). These critical appreciations about the dramatic nature of Margarite and the manifest analogies with El príncipe tirano invite us to explore what elements Lodge may have borrowed from De la Cueva’s plays and adapted in his innovative last romance.

2. The intertextual conglomerate of Margarite Described as an “Elizabethan Medley” by Pollack (1976, 1), as a “Renaissance amalgam” by Addison (1980, 35) and as a “patchwork romance” by Beecher and Janzen (2005, 27), Margarite begins with the armies of Mosco and Cusco taking up arms to fight for Mantinea, the Arcadian city. Arsinous, an old man, intercedes to avoid the confrontation and to persuade Protomachus of Mosco and Artosogon of Cusco to marry off their respective heirs—Margarite of Mosco and Arsadachus of Cusco—in order to secure long-lasting peace; both emperors agree to Arsinous’ plea. As a sign of gratitude, Protomachus bestows the Dukedom of Volgradia on Arsinous and moves his court to Arsinous’ castle, where Margarite soon befriends his daughter Philenia. The villain Arsadachus arrives at the castle after having been advised by his father Artosogon—who was fully aware of his son’s depraved character—to behave according to his rank; but Artosogon loses hope when the prince chooses the friends Sederi who are to accompany him. The vicious and corrupt nature of the Cuscan prince soon emerges: he does not care much for Margarite, but lusts after Philenia, who is engaged to Minecius. Philenia, staunchly virtuous, rejects Arsadachus and rebukes him sharply, threatening to speak out if he ever disturbs her again. Arsadachus takes revenge by having both Philenia and Minecius ambushed (seeking to gain her by violence) and assassinated on their wedding day. As part of Arsadachus’ treacherous plot, his servant Brasidas returns to Cusco pretending to be the perpetrator of the murder. Soon after, Arsinous, Philenia’s father, is told the truth by a page who escaped the massacre. Arsadachus further schemes to avoid arousing suspicion and to silence witnesses by killing Thebion—the Moscovian traitor who had helped him murder the couple—under the false accusation of plotting to slay Protomachus. Arsadachus’ plan (involving an imaginary dream) succeeds. He gains the emperor’s trust and forces Arsinous to be banished “towards the deserts of Ruscia” ([1596] 1980, 113). Protomachus organizes jousts to celebrate the failure of the alleged conspiracy against him. Arsadachus wins. Asaphus, one of the contenders, invites Margarite, Arsadachus, and other young noble men and women to a feast in his walled garden during which they discuss the question of love. As Protomachus’ health deteriorates, Margarite is officially betrothed to Arsadachus who only thinks of eschewing wedlock. Artosogon, feeling his age, asks Protomachus to allow his son to return to Cusco. Before departing, Margarite—on Arsinous’ counsel—presents him with a box that he must open only when he begins to forget her. Once in Cusco, Arsadachus is entertained by Argias, the duke of Moravia, with feasts and banquets, with an eye on political benefits. Argias’ daughter Diana seduces the prince and her father persuades him to break off his engagement to Margarite and to marry Diana, which he secretly does. On learning the news, Artosogon sentences Argias to death, and orders his corpse cut into pieces and sent to Diana. Arsadachus takes revenge by having Artosogon’s tongue cut out and by demanding the emperor’s presence at meals for his own pleasure until Artosogon and the empress die of “age and sorrow” ([1596] 1980, 175). Meanwhile, Margarite, disguised as a country maid and assisted by Fawnia, furtively leaves Mosco for Cusco. In the desert, they are attacked by a lion, which mauls Fawnia but falls asleep on Margarite’s lap. Banished Arsinous, dwelling in a nearby cave, recognizes the princess and, on realizing her purpose, shows

her a momentary vision of Arsadachus by means of magic. Margarite, “striving to embrace him, caught his shadow” ([1596] 1980, 190) to her greatest despair, but carries on with the support of Arsinous, who reveals his identity. Cusco prepares the coronation festivities. At the banquet, Arsadachus mockingly recalls Margarite and opens the box she had left him. A sudden flame and a hideous smell deprive him of his senses, sending him completely mad and driving him to commit a horrendous series of executions. Brasidas is his first victim, his brain “pashed out” ([1596] 1980, 197) from a mighty blow to the head. Arsadachus stabs Diana in the name of Nemesis, “spreading her entrailes about the palace floore, and seizing on her heart, hee tare it in peeces with his tyrannous teeth” ([1596] 1980, 198), and on seeing their one-year old son he “tooke it by the legges, battering out the braines thereof against the walles” ([1596] 1980, 198). When Margarite arrives, he pierces her with a rapier. As his rage is revived, “with bedlam madness fled out of the presence to his privy chamber” ([1596] 1980, 198). Margarite pursues him in agony and falls down dead. On recovering, Arsadachus takes his life with the rapier that killed Margarite. Promotachus invades Cusco and appoints Arsinous as governor. For Addison, Margarite comprises three parts. The “questioni d’amore” episode—indebted to Castiglione’s Il Cortegiano—functions as a “romantic interlude” and therefore constitutes “the second phase of the three-part movement” of the story (1980, 18). In the four-act-tragedy division proposed by Cuvelier, the second part begins just after the deaths of Philenia and Minecius, covers Arsadachus’ scheme to avoid suspicion and concludes with the murder of Thebion and the banishment of Arsinous. The last section begins when Margarite sets out for Cusco (1984, 302). The courtly atmosphere and Greek-named characters in a setting where medieval jousts are conducted and magic exercised are parodied by Lodge in his innovative revenge-tragedy romance. Addison has remarked upon the “metaphysical” (1980, 31) quality of Lodge’s design and has contended that “by attempting to contain all within one structure, he fused disparate forms and yoked diverse structures, themes, styles, and symbols together—often violently” (1980, 35). In this respect, we can also suggest that the nature of Lodge’s experimentation responds to the prevalent “spirit of the Baroque” (mannerist esthetics included), which subtly—albeit effectively—challenged classical or conventional forms and Sederi proportions.7 Excess, another Baroque characteristic, studs the romance not only with numerous deaths, either narrated or merely mentioned, but also with abundant similes from, and textual references to, classical authors, characters, and culture. In Margarite, Lodge intensifies his intertextual techniques through polyphonic collage. He incorporated five direct translations of Giglio’s Seconda selva nuova (Walker 1932, 276), and explicitly declared having imitated the French poet Desportes: “Philip du Portes” ([1596] 1980, 182), and the Italian poets “Dolce” ([1596] 1980, 177)—though he actually plagiarized Ludovico Pasquali or Paschale—and “Martelli” ([1596] 1980, 181). Moreover, he borrowed elements from several other works, encompassing: Sidney’s revised Arcadia, as Katharine Wilson has suggested, due to the similarity between Kalander’s house and Arsinous’ (2006, 160); Machiavelli’s Il Principe and I Discorsi sopra la prima Deca di Tito Livio (Pollack 1976, 3); the medieval allegory, as shown by Anne Falke (1986) in her analysis of Margarite’s nature and role in the light of the literary meanings of margarita (“pearl”) and the Old French marguerite (“daisy”), and of Marguerite de Navarre’s Heptameron; and the story of Phyllis—especially the coffer she gave Demophon (or Acamas), referred to by Apollodorus and Hyginus—to which Beecher and Janzen allude as “the prototype for all subsequent tales in which probative boxes exercised the magic property of reading the intentions of secretive minds and inaugurating appropriate destinies” (2005, 30). The episode of the lion in the desert resembles Spenser’s description of Una (associated with Queen Elizabeth or the Protestant church) wandering alone through the forest in Book I of The Faerie Queene, as the verbal parallels shown by Pollack demonstrate (1976, 8). Expanding this intertextual relationship, Wilson reads Arsadachus as “the equivalent of Archimago,” associated with the threats of Catholic heresies, and suggests that “Lodge imagines what would have happened if Una had fallen in love with a persona as duplicitous as Archimago” (2006, 159); while Joan Pong Linton argues that “the ironic portrayal of Margarite constitutes a parody of Una” by exploring the “misogynist

dichotomy which idealizes female spirituality and debases female sexuality” (1998, 54). There seems to be general agreement that Arsadachus’ plot to abuse Philenia derives from the unsuccessful attempt of vicious "abbate Gesualdo” (abbot Gonsaldo in Fenton’s translation) to rape a nameless maid in Bandello’s seventh novella of the second part, although the brave Neapolitan girl not only injures the abbot but escapes unharmed by jumping from a bridge into a river. The violent deaths of the concluding bloodbath are mostly based on Bandello’s novellas, as pointed out by Pollack, who has argued that Lodge did not search for specific executions but imitated them out of familiarity (1976, 7). In particular, a certain Pandora of Milan, in Bandello’s fifty-second novella of volume III, killed her illegitimate son by beating him against the floor (Arsadachus throws his against the wall), took out his heart and tore at it with her teeth (what Arsadachus does to Diana’s), and still not satisfied brought in her mastiff to feed it her son, piece by piece. Yet, a more conspicuous strategy of carnivalisation than intertextuality, and more purely Baroque, is dissimulation, such as disguising true identity or deceiving the senses. In Margarite, Lodge exploits dissimulation with compelling skill. Characters in disguise—like Margarite dressed up as a country-maid in order to leave Mosco unnoticed, or Arsadachus as a shepherd to recite poems—abound in Renaissance romances. One of Lodge’s astonishing advancements beyond the generic constraints—and the main source of his parodic innovation—concerns the accomplished delineation of the hypocritical and Machiavellian Arsadachus, originating the “extended metaphor of blindness and sight [that] runs through the text” (Wilson 2006, 159). His comely external appearance masks a lustful, morally weak character with a perverse, machinating mind that both feeds and conceals his depraved and vicious nature, whereby the typical happy-ending marriage is turned into a horrendous slaughter. Therefore, for most critics, it is the anti- courtier and the mirror-of-dishonor character embodied by Arsadachus, rather than the ever-pure and virtuous princess, which emerges as the main protagonist of the romance story, as Lodge’s teasing pun on “Margarite”—pearl (and daisy) and female protagonist—announces in the title. Lodge purposefully seems to create an ambiguity, to deceive the reader’s perception, by pretending that the pearl—the valuable prize of his own looting— refers to his female character rather than to the literary text itself. If Sederi not, how else can “of America” in the title be understood, since Margarite does not even come from Cusco, and America is not even slightly insinuated in the text? Scholarly inquiry into the question of “America” in the title has focused on Lodge’s personal disenchantment during his privateering voyage in search of prizes and fame. Daniel Vitkus revises the context and circumstances of Cavendish’s expedition to propose that Lodge’s romance is embedded with his “profound questioning of imperial covetousness and the tyranny of individual ambition over those who naively follow such ambitious masters” (2011, 106). For the absence of references to the American experience, he argues that Lodge rendered instead “a corresponding structure of feeling” (2011, 108), hinting that “perhaps the ferocious ambition, the sordid violence, and the abject failure of that voyage helped to inspire Lodge to create the anti-hero of his Margarite, Arsadachus” (2011, 108), whose monstrous nature and temperament partly exhibits, in Vitkus’s view, Cavendish’s inner conflicts, contradictions and destiny. Josephine Roberts explicates the romance as a dystopian tale, “a nightmare vision of the New World,” and thus as Lodge’s answer to the contemporary debate on whether America was or was not tainted with evil by revealing “the overwhelming corruption of humanity and undercut[ting] the hopeful vision of America as Paradise” (1980, 408). Exploring similar concerns, Linton articulates a perceptive interpretation of “Margarita” as “a veiled critique of the values and motives that informed the English enterprise in America” (1998, 54).8 Linton and Vitkus coincide in stating that it was the

“story itself” (1998, 61), the “book itself” (2011, 100) that Lodge is referring to with the “pearl”/”margarite” in the title. However, it will be argued in the next section that Margarite (together with Arsinous) is Lodge’s inventive addition to the original plot of De la Cueva, and that both the text and the character were conceived in America. This survey of Lodge’s intertextual conglomerate in Margarite surely attests to Beecher and Janzen’s conviction that the Spanish original, if it ever existed, must be, as quoted above, “a bare document indeed” (2005, 28). Although we cannot claim with absolute certainty that Lodge was inspired by reading El príncipe tirano (since no explicit borrowing of names or exact copying of plot would demonstrate it forthwith), the similarities between Margarite and De la Cueva’s plays invite careful examination, always taking into consideration Lodge’s inventiveness in adapting political dramas to the romance form and the pervasive Italianate influence of Giraldi, Bandello and Machiavelli in English and Spanish Renaissance literature.

3. Margarite mirroring El príncipe tirano El príncipe tirano is the general title commonly given to two original plays by Juan de la Cueva (Seville, 1543–Granada, 1612): La comedia del príncipe tirano and its sequel La tragedia del príncipe tirano, as they truly are two parts of the same story. They were first performed in

Sederi

Seville in 1580, and published by Andrea Pescioni in that same city in 1583, followed by a second edition, printed by Juan de León in the same city in 1588. It was noticeably improved by the addition of prose summaries to each play and individual act, or jornada, which undoubtedly helped readers to learn about the plot without necessarily reading the whole text. Juan de la Cueva belonged to the late-sixteenth-century generation of dramatists, variously named “‘novelistic tragedians,’ ‘fin-de-siècle tragedians,’ ‘generation of the tragedians’, [… and] ‘tragedy of horror’” (Hermenegildo 1973, 69; my translation). He undermined the classical models of theatre in several ways. The reduction of dramatic structure from five to four acts is attributed to him. Hermenegildo has remarked on his incoherent distinction between comedy and tragedy, contingent on whether or not the main character dies at the end. Although he advocated decorum of speech, La comedia and La tragedia share style and language, differing only in the development of the dramatic conflict (Reyes 2008, 52). De la Cueva contravened the principles of introducing kings as main characters in La comedia and of presenting the same characters in La tragedia, despite insisting on the strict observance that a comic playwright might not use any element—not even mentioning characters—already used in a tragedy. Moreover, he drew on invented matter (which is characteristic of comedies) rather than on history, whereas the dramatic action takes place in remote antiquity, as in a tragedy, unfolding a “novelesque plot” with a “fanciful story detached from reality” (Cebrián 1992, 41; my translation). De la Cueva’s pseudo-historical plays, set in Colcos (Colchis) during the classical Greek era, suit Lodge’s description of his romance as seemingly “historicall.” In the event that Lodge intended to have his story adapted for the English stage (as its revenge- tragedy structure may hint), by only revealing the Spanish origin of the source text and concealing on which side of the Atlantic it had been produced, he may have tried to ensure that it would appeal more to playwrights and audiences alike than if it carried the name of a contemporary Spanish dramatist unknown in England. Apart from pseudo-historical plots evocative of ancient Greece, Margarite and El príncipe tirano revolve around malevolent Machiavellian princes—Arsadachus and Licímaco, respectively— who become kings following abdication and who face untimely violent deaths in retaliation for their atrocities, concluding with the restoration of justice and with a veiled political uncertainty about dynastic succession or legitimate continuity of power. Both works pose an initial state affair involving the unquestionable agency of the prince who is never consulted on the matter, but is expected willingly to accept and comply with the terms imposed upon them by a state agreement or law for the sake of the nation. In Lodge’s romance, Arsadachus must marry Margarite, whom he obviously dislikes, and, in La comedia del príncipe tirano, primogeniture determines dynastic succession in the kingdom of Colcos, dictating thereby that Princess Eliodora, not her younger brother Licímaco, inherits the crown. Although the romance narrates a love conflict inherent to the genre and the plays develop a political affair, Arsadachus’ corruption broadens from lust to cruel authority, as much as Licímaco’s depravity broadens from political ambition to lust in the closing part of La tragedia, vices that exhibit the private and public sides of the tyrant’s moral degradation (see Reyes 2008, 58). La comedia opens with Agelao, king of Colcos, informing Prince Licímaco that Eliodora is betrothed to Lido, king of Lidia (who never appears on stage), which will bring peace to both countries by uniting them under one “scepter” (1588, fol. 188r).9 Although Licímaco expresses his contentment to abide by the rules, he feels humiliated and secretly yearns for the throne. The Fury Alecto avidly intervenes to make “the thalamus become grave” (1588, fol. 189r).10 Licímaco’s mentor Trasildoro spurs the prince’s indignation and persuades him to murder his sister when she crosses the garden to her bedroom. The Fury Alecto disguised as Mérope, Eliodora’s nurse, encourages him to do the same. Juan de la Cueva presents the Parcae on stage cutting Eliodora’s life-thread as she, accompanied by Alecto as Mérope, enters the garden and meets her brother. Fully aware of his intentions, Eliodora offers him the crown in exchange for her life, but to no avail. Licímaco murders both his sister and Trasildoro (to silence him), and buries them on the premises (later, in La tragedia, he will also kill Mérope—and the baby she was

Sederi holding—falsely believing she witnessed his fratricide).11 While the search for the princess takes place, Licímaco decides not to flee but to dissemble; in fact, the king accuses Mérope and her husband Gracildo of negligence, and orders Licímaco to torture them until they confess. In the second act of La comedia, King Agelao is “chased” (1588, fol. 195r)12 by the ghosts of Eliodora and Trasildoro. They disclose the truth about their deaths and the wickedness of Licímaco, who is imprisoned and sentenced to death. However, the king resolves to release him after much debate on the question whether justice or legal transmission of power should prevail. Meanwhile, helped by the nobleman Beraldo, Licímaco escapes from jail. La comedia, though dire, ends here. As we have explained above, Lodge could have easily understood the dramatic plot set down in the prose summaries in the second edition of the plays; but if he had been fascinated by the story and wished to render the tale in romance form, some changes would have been needed because the events involve just a few members of the royal family of Colcos. Firstly, the fraternal bond between Eliodora and Licímico would need to be broken, so that the latter would assume the role of her betrothed. Consequently, the figure of King Agelao would be duplicated to provide the new Licímaco-character, Arsadachus, with a judicious father, given his son’s depraved nature. Secondly, the female protagonist would require a young friend, not a guardian nurse; but, since the heroine’s performance must last until the final resolution, it is Philenia who would meet Eliodora’s tragic end—a greater resemblance to De la Cueva’s invention than to Bandello’s tale of the villainous abbot. Therefore, Lodge’s new character is precisely the female protagonist: the pure and (Phyllis-like) courtly Margarite. In addition, Thebion portrays the role of the traitor Trasildoro, and Brasidas fits the part played by Alecto/Mérope. In Lodge’s set of characters, Philenia’s father Arsinous stands out as his boldest creation, to the extent of embodying a hypostasis of the author himself. Not only is Arsinous the orchestrator of the plot

and deviser of the narrative scenarios—in the first part by proposing the marriage of the heirs to ensure peace, in the middle questioni- d’amore episode by his banishment, and in the last part by bestowing on Margarite the probative box for Arsadachus—but he is also a writer and artificer of visual illusions through his magic. Apart from veiling the political conflict to focus on love, Lodge removed the Furies, Parcae and ghosts from the story, and had Arsinous informed of the details of his daughter’s death by an eye-witness page. Furthermore, Lodge parodies the typical ghastly dreams, like Agelao’s, by Arsadachus’ contrivance to get rid of Thebion while definitely winning Protomachus’ trust. Lodge thus grants his narrative Senecan-tragedy atmosphere a more realist, human agency. Unlike Licímaco, Arsadachus is not jailed. Following the interpolation of the questioni d’amore (based on Il Cortegiano), when his marriage to Margarite seems inevitable, he feels helpless; but Lodge devises a providential coincidence external to the character that he plausibly explicates. As a result, like Licímaco at the beginning of La tragedia, Arsadachus returns to his father and, also following abdication, is crowned amidst ostentatious festivities. Afterwards, the moral corruption of both protagonists is intensified: Licímaco’s, by declaring in a soliloquy his determination to exercise power through cruelty and tyranny, and Arsadachus’, by his attachment to the flatterer Argias and by his infatuation with his alluring daughter Diana, and subsequent breaking off of his betrothal to Margarite—a thoroughly unacceptable action for one of his status. Before transferring the crown to Licímaco, Agelao issues an “admirable judgment” (1588, fol. 220r)13 when three men and a woman come before him in relation to a marriage, as the summary to the first act announces. The matter of the case, however, is only disclosed in the dramatic text. Curiously enough, it resembles Arsadachus’ rejection of Margarite and secret marriage to Diana. It concerns an angry father whose daughter married, not her betrothed, but another man secretly, and now both are claiming their respective right over her. Agelao orders that the woman be blindfolded and grab the one who will be her legitimate husband— eventually the other man.

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If Lodge were inspired by Juan de la Cueva’s plays, his duplication of the king figure represents one of his major improvements. In La tragedia, Agelao, somewhat implausibly, grieves impotently over his son’s atrocities14 and survives him to reinstate justice.15 In Margarite, however, Artosogon not only censures his son’s secret marriage and has Argias executed, but also, more realistically, suffers his ruthless revenge till death, while political order in Cusco is violently restored by Protomachus’ invasion. Artosogon’s death sentence against Argias, though less brutal, resembles Agelao’s unaccomplished verdict against his son in La comedia, as the italicized words (my emphasis) evince: [Artosogon] presently caused him to be torn in pieces at the tails of four horses. Then, casting his mangled members into a litter, he sent them to Diana in a present, […] ([1596] 1980, 168) […] and let [Licímaco] be put in a pannier, tied to two horses that pull it swiftly, carried through the streets […] up to the square where, alive […], his feet and hands publicly cut off, that everybody there may see it. Afterwards, let his head be fiercely severed from his neck by a sharp edge, and his infamous, daring body divided into four parts. (1588, fol. 209r)16 Similarly, Arsadachus’ method of revenge upon his father—cutting out his tongue, a symbol of justice and political stability—combines three elements of La tragedia that announce and finally reveal Licímano’s tyranny: the allegorical Dumb-character who commits suicide in the first act, the subsequent allegorical Kingdom-character yoked and breast-pierced in the second act (thus rendering the Dumb-character meaningful), and Licímaco’s order to burn the Law books kept in the temple of Mars and the temple itself. In Margarite, Arsadachus would order his tongueless father brought to his table merely to laugh at his utter humiliation. In La tragedia, Licímaco, at

the dramatic climax of his tyrannical derangement, falsely accuses and imprisons his first cousin Calcedio and the nobleman Erícipo. The former’s wife Teodosia17 and the latter’s daughter Doriclea are commanded to attend a banquet, during which the convicts are brought in and buried up to the waist (to be mauled by dogs in the morning). After the banquet, the ladies are escorted to Licímaco’s chambers for him “to lie in bed with them” (1588, fol. 219v).18 But they fatally stab him and, on calling for the death penalty for themselves, are forgiven by Agelao, who discerns an act of divine justice in the regicide, as his speech in the closing lines of La tragedia elucidates: “on our way we’ll enter the temple to thank Iove who has so truly helped us and beseech him for grace from this event” (1588, fol. 242v).19 Although the tyrant punished by justice was also the theme of Giraldi’s Orbecche and many of his Hecatommithi (Froldi 1999, 26), the women’s stabbing hands merely enact a providential divine action over Licímaco. According to Reyes, De la Cueva follows Giraldi’s and Dolce’s “christianized” (2008, 68) model of Senecan revenge tragedy, and defends the idea of a Christian against a Machiavellian prince, since his legitimacy to the crown “resides in his commitment to his people, having God as witness. Therefore, if the prince rules against his vassals or divine law, his power will be questionable, and his subjects may resist him and ultimately get rid of him” (2008, 66; my translation). Trial by ordeal results in a major constituent of El príncipe tirano’s significance in the context of Phillip II’s reign.20 As Hermenegildo states, “as soon as Philip II died, the character of the abhorrent tyrant disappeared from Spanish drama” (1973, 308; my translation). Trial by divine ordeal is more conspicuous in Margarite, where no human agent, but rather the probative box, suffices to trigger the fall of Arsadachus, even though, unlike in El príncipe

Sederi tirano, both guilty and innocent characters are exterminated in the process, with the notable exception of Arsinous, the ultimate artificer of the providential divine punishment on Arsadachus.

4. Conclusion It is not improbable that a volume of Juan de la Cueva’s 1588 edition of plays reached Santos from Seville or the Canary Islands, where the author resided from 1589 to 1602. This second edition was conveniently improved by the addition of prose summaries of each play and individual act. These plot summaries would be particularly helpful for foreign readers to follow the story. This study does not conclusively demonstrate that De la Cueva’s El príncipe tirano was the Spanish “history” that Lodge read at the Jesuit library at Santos or that it inspired his Margarite. However, the similarities between them point to a perplexing coincidence, if not to Lodge’s alleged appropriation: the two-part romance structure parallel to La comedia and La tragedia (separated by the questioni- d’amore episode); the series of analogies to the dramatic plot from Eliodora’s state-marriage for peace to Licímaco’s trial by divine ordeal; and Licímaco’s nature and role. The numerous affinities between the romance and the plays strongly hint at the English writer’s indebtedness to the Spanish playwright, even though both are informed by the Italianate influence of Machiavelli, Bandello’s and Giraldi’s tales, and the neo-Senecan revenge tragedy, which Lodge perfects by infusing more realism. If the structure, plot—political plot adapted to romance—and male protagonist of Margarite emanate from De la Cueva’s El príncipe tirano, Arsinous and the heroine seem to be Lodge’s additions. As we have suggested above, Arsinous functions as a hypostasis of the author, whereas after this analysis Margarite grows into a much more complex, mysterious, allegorical character, even though she may derive from Phyllis’ progeny or from Marguerite of Navarre’s Heptameron. The purity she embodies is ultimately annihilated by the conjoint demands of politics, intrigues and ill-behavior. El príncipe tirano revolves around the ways in which power is legitimated or eroded by the rightful application of magnanimity and justice, whereas Lodge clearly avoids exploring these qualities. The probative box that indirectly fulfills Arsinous’ revenge, simultaneously makes Margarite an innocent victim, whose hyperbolic virginity, matched with anti-courtier Arsadachus’ psychic monstrosity, may be explicated in terms of Lodge’s refusal to write any more romances in the context of his life and times, producing instead the Marian pamphlet Prosopopeia.

References Acosta, José de. (1590) 1987. Historia natural y moral de las Indias. Edited by José Alcina Franch. Madrid: Historia 16. Addison, James Clyde, ed. 1980. And Old-Spelling Critical Edition of Thomas Lodge’s A Margarite of America (1596). Salzburg: Institut für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, Universität Salzburg. Beecher, Donald, and Henry D. Janzen, eds. 2005. Thomas Lodge. A Margarite of America (1596). Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies. Cavendish, Thomas. (1591–1592) 1988. “Cavendish’s Narrative.” In Last Voyages. Cavendish, Hudson, Ralegh: The Original Narratives, edited by Philip Edwards, 55–80. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Cebrián, José, ed. 1992. Introduction to El infamador. Los siete infantes de Lara, 9–70. Madrid: Espasa-Calpe. Centenera, Martín del Barco. 1602. La Argentina. Lisboa: Pedro Crasbeeck. Cueva, Juan de la. 1588. Primera parte de las comedias y tragedias de Ioan de la Cueua. Dirigidas a Momo. Sevilla: Ioan de Leon. Cuvelier, Eliane. 1984. Thomas Lodge. Témoin de son temps (c. 1558–1625). Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne-Didier Erudition. Doutrina christãa na liguoa Brasilica. Bodleian Library. MS. Bodl. 617/Miscellaneous MSS 2913. Edwards, Philip, ed. 1988. Last Voyages. Cavendish, Hudson, Ralegh: The Original Narratives. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Falke, Anne. 1986. “The ‘Marguerite’ and the ‘Margarita’ in Thomas Lodge’s A Margarite of America.” Neophilologus 70 (1): 142–54. Froldi, Rinaldo. 1999. “Reconsiderando el teatro de Juan de la Cueva.” In XXI Jornadas de teatro clásico. Almagro. 1998, 15–30. Almagro: Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha. Hermenegildo, Alfredo. 1973. La tragedia en el renacimiento español. Barcelona: Planeta. Lewis, C. S. 1968. English Literature in the Sixteenth-Century (Excluding Drama). Oxford: Clarendon. Sederi

Linton, Joan Pong. 1998. The Romance of the New World. Gender and the Literary Formations of English Colonialism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lodge, Thomas. (1596) 1980. A Margarite of America. In And Old-Spelling Critical Edition of Thomas Lodge’s A Margarite of America (1596), edited by James C. Addison. 39–211. Salzburg: Institut für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, Universität Salzburg. Pollack, Claudette. 1976. “Lodge’s A Margarite of America: An Elizabethan Medley.” Renaissance and Reformation 12 (1): 1–11. Randall, Dale B. J. 1963. The Golden Tapestry: A Critical Survey of Non-Chivalric Spanish Fiction in English Translation (1543–1657). Durham: Duke University Press. Roberts, Josephine. 1980. “Lodge’s A Margarite of America: A Dystopian Vision of the New World.” Studies in Short Fiction 17: 407–14. Sarduy, Severo. 1987. Ensayos generales sobre el Barroco. Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Silva, Luiz Antonio Gonçalves da. 2008. “As bibliotecas dos jesuítas: uma visão a partir da obra de Serafim Leite.” Perspectivas em Ciência da Informação 13 (2): 219–37. Vitkus, Daniel. 2011. “Ridding the World of a Monster: Lodge’s A Margarite of America and Cavendish’s Last Voyage.” The Yearbook of English Studies 41 (1): 99–112. Walker, Alice. 1932. “The Reading of an Elizabethan: Some Sources of the Prose Pamphlets of Thomas Lodge.” Review of English Studies 8 (31): 264– 81. Wilson, Katharine. 2006. Fictions of Authorship in Late Elizabethan Narratives. Euphues in Arcadia. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

How to cite this article: Monterrey, Tomás. “El príncipe tirano by Juan de la Cueva as the Spanish source of Thomas Lodge’s A Margarite of America: A comparative suggestion.” SEDERI 28 (2018): 33–53. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Dpto. Filología Inglesa y Alemana – Apartado de correos 456 – Facultad de Humanidades (Filología) – 38200 San Cristóbal de La Laguna – Spain Submission: 10/11/2017 Acceptance: 02/02/2018

The house, the city, and the colony in the works of Aphra Behn: Gendered spaces and the freedoms and dangers they afford

Margarete Rubik Universität Wien, Austria

ABSTRACT In Behn’s works the house affords no security for women, as men may force their way in, or relatives collude in the sexual violation of women. However, men, too, are threatened and cuckolded in their own houses. Not even convents are safe spaces for either sex. Outdoor spaces promise freedom from supervision but harbor threats to both women’s and men’s honor. The Whig inhabitants of the City of London are ridiculed, but female characters dabbling in politics are no more likeable, though Behn sympathizes with women claiming a right to public visibility. The racialized colonial space offers upward social mobility to Englishmen and –women, and to the latter also the freedom to partake in pastimes and occupations traditionally connoted as male.

KEYWORDS: Aphra Behn; Restoration drama; gendering of spaces; spacial studies; women’s literature

La casa, la ciudad, y la colonia A casa, a cidade e a colónia en las obras de Aphra Behn: nas obras de Aphra Behn: Espacios de género y las libertades y espaços de género e as liberdades e peligros que ofrecen perigos que oferecem RESUMEN: En las obras de Behn la casa no RESUMO: Nas obras de Behn, a casa não ofrece seguridad para las mujeres, ya que proporciona segurança às mulheres, já los hombres pueden entrar a la fuerza, o que os homens podem forçar a entrada los familiares pueden conspirar para la ou os familiares conspirar para a viola- violación sexual de las mujeres. Sin ção sexual das mulheres. Contudo, embargo, también los hombres se ven também os homens são ameaçados e amenazados y engañados en sus propias enganados nas suas próprias casas. Nem casas. Ni siquiera los conventos son un sequer os conventos são lugares seguros espacio seguro para los miembros de los para membros de ambos os sexos. Os dos sexos. Los espacios exteriores pro- espaços exteriores prometem liberdade meten liberar de la supervisión, pero da supervisão, mas albergam ameaças à albergan amenazas al honor tanto de las honra tanto de mulheres como de ho- mujeres como de los hombres. Los Whigs mens. Os habitantes Whig da City de de la City de Londres son ridiculizados, Londes são ridicularizados, mas as pero los personajes femeninos que se personagens femininas que se metem na aventuran en la política no son más política não são mais agradáveis, em- agradables, aunque Behn simpatiza con bora Behn revele empatia para com Sederi las mujeres que demandan el derecho a la mulheres que reclamam um direito à visibilidad pública. El espacio colonial visibilidade pública. O espaço colonial racializado ofrece movilidad que permita racializado oferece mobilidade social el ascenso en la escala social para los ascendente a ingleses e inglesas e a estas ingleses e inglesas, y para estas últimas, últimas também a liberdade de partici- además, la libertad de formar parte de par em passatempos e ocupações que pasatiempos y ocupaciones que tradicio- tinham conotações tradicionalmente nalmente tenían connotaciones masculi- masculinas. nas. PALABRAS CLAVE: Aphra Behn; teatro de PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Aphra Behn; teatro la Restauración; género y espacio; estu- da Restauração; género e espaço; estu- ** dios espaciales; literatura de mujeres.* dos espaciais; literatura de mulheres.

General considerations This paper will discuss the gendering of spaces—or rather, the subversion and questioning of such gendering—in the works of Aphra Behn, the first professional English woman writer. The interpretation will focus on her comedies, with occasional references to her narratives and to a few other well-known plays of the period for comparison. I will start with some general considerations, and then discuss first private, and then public spaces, and finally Behn’s descriptions of colonial spaces. I will show that although her male characters try to introduce a spatial regimen to control women’s activities, a survey of Behn’s works from a spacial perspective illustrates that she repeatedly disrupts “the European construct of domestic space, which always encloses the feminine within the protection of male power” (Runge 2014, 27).1 In Behn’s oeuvre domestic settings are no safer than outside urban locations for either women or men—these spaces hold promises of autonomy and humiliation for both genders; and the physical and social mobility attainable for settlers in the new world is tainted by violence and misgovernment.

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It should be noted that the terminology used in spacial studies unfortunately is not uniform. Cynthia Wall and Miles Ogborn, for instance, in their respective studies speak of The Literary and Cultural Spaces of Restoration London, or of Spaces of Modernity. Mona Narain and Karen Gevirtz (2014, 4), on the other hand, define space as a “geographical, material area,” and place as “an area delineated by the convergence of the material, the ideological and of memory.” I have opted for the term “space,” in the sense of both a physical or mental sphere in which characters operate and a location considered appropriate to them (OED), in order to analyze, not descriptions of concrete sites of memory, but Behn’s representation of such concepts as indoors and outdoors, home and abroad, and the gendered power dynamics that are played out in these locations. No matter what terminology we use, however, there is general agreement that spaces “undergo transformation and are invested with meaning and value thanks to particular representational practices” (Brewer 2004, 174), and “cultural productions, such as literature, play fundamental roles in this continuing process of construction of meaning” (Runge 2014, 21). When we speak of gendered spaces, we tend to think of the nineteenth-century doctrine of separate spheres, which it would be a-historical to apply to the seventeenth century. There was no rigid segregation of male and female spaces then. While a century later men and women were believed to be endowed with different natures and hence needed separate spheres, the Galenic model of human physiology represented sex not as a binary opposition but as a sliding scale (Pearson 2003, 163), with the male body believed to be closer to perfection (Flather 2007, 19). Still, women were associated more with enclosed spaces, though of course the boundaries between the private and the public have always been permeable. Space constructs and is constructed by social relations (Flather 2007, 3). Women’s activities were circumscribed by social expectations and conventions, as well as prescriptive ideas from religious and conduct books; the freedoms and choices afforded to women obviously differed according to age, rank and family situation: widows, for instance, had more freedom than daughters and wives. Sixteenth and seventeenth-century women worked in all kinds of professions—from street vendors to midwives and members of the royal household, and helped in their husbands’ businesses. By the

end of the seventeenth century, however, the growing professionalization edged out women from traditional occupations. Besides, Restoration drama deals predominantly with rich or upper class women, frequently casting tradesmen’s wives merely in the roles of seduction victims. Of course women of rank also supervised households and servants—but Restoration dramatists were not interested in such tasks. They portrayed women of leisure, who were hardly ever shown as engaging in other occupations than amorous intrigue, husband hunting or cuckolding.

The private space The term “private” means that a thing is restricted to the use of one person, or a group of persons, rather than being communal and shared (OED). Lena Cowen Orlin (1994, 2) claims that the proverb that a man’s home is his castle dates back to the sixteenth century. But true privacy, even in privately owned houses, had been largely unavailable in earlier times, when even bedrooms were shared. Indeed, privacy only began to be more broadly available for bourgeois households in the Restoration period. After the Great Fire, Cynthia Wall (1998, 214) explains, house design changed: instead of interlocking suites of room, through which people passed at all hours, corridors and back stairs were built, and smaller rooms allowed for more private space—at least for the rich. Behn’s comedies are not only set in England, but also in Madrid, Cadiz, Naples (then under Spanish rule), Rome, Florence, etc. There are also prose works set in Flanders, France and Portugal. She often mixes the conventions of London city comedy with Spanish intrigue comedy, since the stricter Spanish and Italian rules of conduct provided a good background for plots in which women try to escape from patriarchal control. Nonetheless, Behn generally modelled her foreign spaces on the conditions in England. Behn’s English and foreign heroines alike come from the wealthy classes and generally have private rooms for their own use. In The Emperor of the Moon (set in Naples), both the Doctor’s daughter and niece have separate bedrooms. The rich London widow Lady Galliard in The City Heiress has at least one dressing room and a chamber. The stage directions in The Luckey Chance specify “a Sederi chamber in the apartment of Lady Fulbank” (1687, I. 2),2 the wife of a rich London merchant, plus an anti-chamber (1687, V. 2), and Lady Fancy, who is of the same social class, has her own private bedroom, too. Not that these private chambers shelter them from their husbands’ amorous advances. Wives had no authority to prevent husbands from entering their bedrooms,3 and marital rape was not considered a crime. Wall (1998, 156) has complained that descriptions of locations in Restoration comedy are vague and non-descript in comparison with Elizabethan and Jacobean plays—but then Elizabethan theatre did not use stage scenery and needed to convey an impression of the surroundings through the dialogue. Restoration theatres for the first time used changeable wings and shutters. But scenery for most plays was pulled from stock: companies probably had standard scenery for a wood, or a city street, as well as for lodgings, or a throne room (Milhous and Hume 1985, 53)—and those were used, regardless of what authors specified in their scripts. It would thus have been counter-productive for playwrights to give detailed descriptions in the text, because the theatres as likely as not would not have been able to fulfil the requirements. Hence the stage directions in Behn’s comedies merely indicate “a chamber,” “a street” or “a garden,” but hardly give any further descriptions. The lavish lodgings in which the eponymous Feign’d Curtizans reside is briefly suggested by the men’s admiration: “How rich is all we meet in this Palace […]” (The Feign’d Curtizans 1679, IV. 1)—perhaps an indication that the scenery normally used for a royal residence was required. Also other characters, such as Angellica in The Rover, boast of a “fine chamber” (1677, II. 2), but how this was painted and furnished, we do not know. We do know that Cornelia’s bedchamber in The Feign’d Curtizans has an arras and fireplace (1679, IV. 1), in which one of the foolish suitors tries to hide. Interestingly, one of the most closely described locations is not one of these elegant places, but Gayman’s miserable attic in Alsatia (a notorious sanctuary for debtors and criminals outside the

jurisdiction of the City of London), where he has hidden to conceal his total impoverishment. For once, the description is given in a conversation between Lady Fancy, who is enamored of Gayman, and her husband’s apprentice, who has managed to locate him: […] I was sent up a Ladder rather than a pair of Stairs; [… the room is] a pretty convenient Tub Madam. He may lie along in’t, there’s just room for an old Joyn’d Stool besides the Bed, which one cannot call a Cabin, about the largeness of a Pantry Bin, or a Usurer's Trunk, there had been Dornex Curtains to’t in the Days of Yore ; but they were now annihilated, and nothing left to save his Eyes from the Light, but my Land-ladies Blew Apron, ty’d by the strings before the Window, in which stood a broken six-penny Looking-Glass […]. (The Luckey Chance I, 2) The question of private space is closely connected with property ownership. Since British laws regulating property ownership were gendered, and formal and legal authority rested with the husband (Flather 2007, 41),4 who, as the householder, was accountable for his family and servants (Orlin 1994, 3–4), it was thus actually men who held the power in the house, although it was considered the appropriate space for women. The father’s position in the household was likened to that of a King in the public realm. Even after the Glorious Revolution, Sarah Mendelson and Patricia Crawford remark (1998, 6), the King might hold the crown at the invitation of Parliament, but men were still believed to have a God-given right to govern their family members and servants. A husband could even throw his wife out of the house, or forbid others to visit her, and he was allowed to “correct” her behavior by beating her. Naturally we should not assume that all women were oppressed in such ways; indeed, Restoration comedy describes an astonishing amount of freedom and transgression on the part of women. But we also need to remember that there were men who did exert their full, brutal authority (in real life as in plays such as Behn’s The Forc’d Marriage): the historical Hortense Mancini, Duchess Mazarin, was separated from her family and friends and was confined by her husband, until she fled and finally became mistress to Charles II. Like the other mistresses whom Charles made conspicuous in his court, she paid for her high visibility by a notorious reputation and frequent

Sederi vituperation. While giving her freedom from her disastrous marriage, the English court thus “merely came with a different set of limitations and expectations for those who wished to be its regular members” (Beggs 2014, 120). As a rule, men—especially men of the higher classes—, tried to control female sexuality, as women could ruin the family honor by their unchastity (Mendelson and Crawford 1998, 4, 91) and introduce bastards into the family line. Moralists like Richard Allestree (1673 [1727], Part II, 151) warned virgins against the liberty of choosing their own company, which might give “opportunity to any that have ill designs upon them.” Young women of rank generally had less privacy with suitors than middle or lower class women, and least agency of all women in courtship (Mendelson and Crawford 1998, 108; 112). Marriages among the landed classes were generally arranged, and financial transactions rather than love matches, although girls were slowly being granted a right of veto in marriage. Widows had more freedom—but still had to guard their reputation. Generally, women were believed to be either sexually insatiable, or at least frail vessels that could not resist temptation. Hence the house was not only a woman’s proper place because of cooking and house- keeping, but because women could be closely chaperoned and surveilled by male and female relatives, and in addition servants in attendance could act as spies. In The Rover, for instance, the heroines’ brother breaks in upon their secret conversation on how to escape from their father’s dictates of a forced marriage and confinement to a nunnery. He orders the governess to watch over them and prevent them from going out. In contrast, the servant Pedro in Feign’d Curtizans helps the two heroines who fled from a similar fate to survive. Lady Galliard in The City Heiress is betrayed by her maid, who was bribed to act as a secret witness to a promise of marriage, which the widow never meant to keep. But by and large, attendants in Behn’s works are helpers rather than enemies: in The False Count, Sir Patient Fancy and The Younger Brother they encourage and help their mistresses to cuckold their elderly husbands. In The Luckey Chance her husband’s apprentice helps Lady Fulbank to convey to her admirer money which she stole from her husband. Despite male authority and control, several women in Behn’s works thus follow their own desires in the house (though Behn also shows how men sexually exploit women). In fact plays of the period teem with cuckolding plots and prove the inadequacy of domestic surveillance and prescriptions of behavior. While male writers like Wycherley and Etherege in their comedies glamorize male rakes but show little sympathy for female transgressors, Behn celebrates women’s wit, unruliness and ingenuity in overcoming obstacles of gendered conventions and evinces marked sympathy for transgressive women. In theory, women were supposed to be safe from temptation and sexual danger in the house, but this is certainly not true of Behn’s works. “Boundaries mean little to men,” Derek Hughes (2004, 40) rightly remarks, as characters like Sir Charles in The City Heiress simply force their way into Lady Galliard’s house. Even more often, however, patriarchs themselves introduce visitors who then stain their honor: in the short story “The Dumb Virgin” the father’s guest makes love to the daughter while the old man is entertaining other guests below. A fool in The Younger Brother introduces his wife to a prince, whom she thereupon invites to her bed. And in The False Count, a miserly old man invites a chimneysweep disguised as a nobleman to woo his daughter. Indeed, in some cases close relatives are directly responsible for a woman’s sexual violation. In the novel Love Letters between a Nobleman and his Sister, Silvia is seduced by her brother-in-law in her father’s house, under his very nose. The rakish Lodwick in Sir Patient Fancy has no scruples about sleeping with his future mother-in-law when her maid mistakes him for her lover. Julia in The Luckey Chance is violated in her own house, with her husband’s connivance. He has wagered her body in a game of dice and allows the winner to sleep with her, pretending that he is her husband. Restoration law would not have classified husband- impersonation as rape (Pacheco 2000), but the two men together turn Julia unto an unwitting adulteress. In a surprising twist, however, Behn turns even Julia’s commodification into a source of female empowerment: his vile trick gives her the justification to separate from her husband, and also to send her lover packing—although it is not clear whether the latter is meant in earnest. The violation of her body has thus given her the moral excuse to free herself from male domination. If the examples listed undermine the “contemporary rhetoric that presented the domestic environment as safe for women” (Flather Sederi

2007, 53), Behn also shows that the home is not necessarily a safe place for men either. Besides their humiliation by cuckold-makers, there are other threats as well. In The Luckey Chance, a young intruder prevents an old man from consummating his marriage by fake messages of riots in the city, and frightens him out of his wits in the guise of a ghost. Sir Timothy in The City Heiress is terrorized and robbed in his house by his nephew. And in the narrative The History of the Nun a man returning home from a long journey is murdered by his wife, who in the meantime has married a second time. Such gruesome perversions of domestic peace are, of course, nothing new in drama—Jacobean domestic tragedies like Arden of Feversham also capitalized on such sensational plots.5 Men in Behn’s plays also run a risk when they enter the houses of prostitutes, where they are threatened by rivals or cheated by the women themselves. In The Feign’d Curtizans, various prospective suitors steal into the protagonists’ house in the hope of a tȇte-a-tȇte, but are beaten up, pursued by armed rivals, or fall into a well. In The Rover, a prostitute posing as a gentlewoman lures the country fool Blunt to her house, robs him and disposes of the naked victim through a trap-door leading into a sewer. Since he does not know her name and, as a stranger, cannot find the house again, she gets away scot-free. Quite apart from murder, robbery, beatings and humiliation, on a more harmless level, men are not always free from unwanted intrusion and importunities in their own habitations. Blunt in The Rover, reduced to his underwear after the adventure with the predacious whore, cannot keep his friends out of his chamber. Despite his pleas, they break open the door to sneer and laugh at his misfortune. And customs of hospitality and good neighborhood forbid Sir Patient Fancy to throw out his loquacious neighbor, Lady Knowall, who during a visit maddens him with an endless flood of words. In The Town Fopp and The Younger Brother, masked revelers enter the house uninvited to join the wedding celebrations—and here, too, the patriarchs have little power to rid themselves of such unbidden guests. Not even convents are safe places for either sex, or guarantees of female chastity—quite apart from those examples where prospective nuns run away to provide themselves with marriage partners. In the

story The History of the Nun the protagonist breaks her solemn religious vows when she is courted by a handsome young man and in the end—despite her supposed piety—murders both her first and second husband. The Fair Jilt in the narrative of this title makes a temporary vow as a Begine, but spends her time receiving presents, serenades and billets-doux, and is so depraved that she tries to seduce a priest during confession and, when this fails, accuses him of rape—which leads to his imprisonment. Private spaces, at least in Behn’s oeuvre, are thus locations of danger and opportunity for both men and women. Undoubtedly her female figures are vulnerable to male violence even inside the house. However, in her works she presents the house not primarily as a place of female suppression and male power. As often as not, men become victims of pranks in turn, or even worse. Women—with the help of servants, or their own ingenuity and wit—get the better of them, or, as we shall see in the next part, venture outdoors to escape from patriarchal control.

The public space The term “public,” generally understood in opposition to “private,” means that something is open to and relates to the whole community and to public life (OED), and I will comment on Behn’s treatment of public space both in the meaning of “generally accessible to a wider public” and “political,” i.e., pertaining to the public weal. Public spaces in Restoration drama were mainly outdoor urban places of approved social interaction, such as streets, markets, or gardens. Such places were considered the domain of men, although women did have access to them—for instance for shopping, or selling goods at the market. The rich also had access to leisured activities and amusements, such as going to the theatres, or promenading or driving their coaches through the fashionable parks. Women of rank, however, were not supposed to walk there alone, but had to be chaperoned or accompanied. Shady groves in gardens and parks offered too inviting a place for illicit sexual activities. Women who entered such spaces alone thus risked their reputations. Even middle and lower class women often went out into the public space in pairs to protect themselves from harassment and violence (Flather 2007, Sederi

124). Especially walking the streets at night involved the very real danger of being mistaken for a whore and arrested. In Restoration comedy, we hence often see men meeting in the streets, rarely women. And although couples (accompanied by friends) do meet in fashionable places of entertainment, it would be a misconception to believe that most action in Restoration plays takes place outdoors. After all, sex comedy of the period contains a lot of bedroom action. Behn, in particular, sets many scenes indoors—perhaps because more than her male contemporaries she focuses on women characters. But she also shows how her female figures negotiate outdoor spaces.6 In Behn’s comedies it would be wrong to associate gender transgression only with transgressing physical boundaries; we have seen that plenty of transgressive women also operate indoors. In the house activities were subject to surveillance. It is the anonymity and escape from patriarchal control in outside spaces that makes them attractive to Behn’s rebellious heroines. Normally defined as somebody’s daughter, wife or widow, they can be whoever they want outside, as long as they don a disguise. Dressed as men, they gain the mobility normally only afforded to men, who need no justification to roam the streets. In cross-class disguise, they are free from the social etiquette women of rank had to observe and able to flirt with strangers (as happens in The Rover, The Feign’d Curtizans, or The Younger Brother). Urban spaces offer women the freedom of meeting men without their family’s approval—albeit at a possible danger to their honor, i.e. chastity. Hughes (2004, 39) in his discussion of Behn’s dramatic oeuvre speaks of “the perilous wide spaces of the public world.” Indeed, it might be argued that Florinda in The Rover, by leaving the patriarchal protection of the house to find the man she loves, runs the danger of rape, because she is twice mistaken for a prostitute—and molesting a prostitute was not considered a crime (Pacheco 1998).7 However, her self-confident, witty sister Hellena, who ventures out during the Naples carnival disguised as a gipsy, is in no danger of molestation. And, as I have tried to show, indoor spaces do not necessarily provide any more

protection. Besides, if women risk their honor in these outdoor spaces, so do men, because they frequently get involved in duels and brawls testing their strength and courage, quite apart from the danger of being cullied by thieving prostitutes or other swindlers (as, for instance, in The False Count and The Feign’d Curtizans). Churches were one of the few public spaces women of rank could attend alone without endangering their reputations, but in Restoration plays they are places of sexual intrigue, not religious devotion—so much so that, like Hippolita’s father in Wycherley’s The Gentleman Dancing Master (1673, I. 1),8 for fear of being cuckolded Sir Feeble in The Luckey Chance tries to forbid his bride to attend the service (1687, I. 3). No matter whether Anglicans, Catholics or Dissenters—lechery is rife everywhere. The rake in The City Heiress has an assignation in an Anglican Church with a woman who, he hopes, will prove a willing “sinner” (1682, I. 1). One of the Catholic heroines in The Emperor of the Moon is so taken with all the well- dressed beaus at the chapel that she has no thought to spare for heaven, but does “nothing but admire its handy work” (1687, I.1). In Sir Patient Fancy and The Roundheads we hear that lustful Nonconformist Elders sexually harass female worshippers. And, as already mentioned, Miranda, the Fair Jilt, tries to seduce a priest in the sacristy. Miranda is later pilloried for attempted murder and hence exposed to one of the worst forms of shaming a woman of rank could face. Her accomplice is hanged. […] she was found guilty, and both receiv’d Sentence; the Page to be hang’d, till he was dead, on a Gibbet in the Market-place; and the Princess to stand under the Gibbet, with a Rope about her Neck, the other End of which was to be fasten’d to the Gibbet where the Page was hanging; and to have an Inscription in large Characters upon her Back and Breast, of the Cause why: Where she was to stand from Ten in the Morning, to Twelve. (The Fair Jilt 1688, 97)9 Public punishments and executions, indeed, were popular spectacles, but Behn rarely described such scenes; this short story, however, features two executions (one of them botched), both

Sederi involving male accomplices of the protagonist, who herself is only pilloried. Yet she manages to turn even this public humiliation into a pageant of her beauty and wealth: she appears, dressed to kill, in a velvet gown embroidered all over with diamonds and a train of servants and footmen following her. A Gentleman carry’d her great Velvet Cushion before her, on which her Prayer-Book, embroider’d, was laid; her Train was born up by a Page […]. When they arriv’d to the Place of Execution, the Cushion was laid on the Ground […] and the Princess stood on the Cushion, with her Prayer-Book in her Hand, and a Priest by her Side; and was accordingly ty’d up to the Gibbet. (The Fair Jilt 1688, 99) Let us now take a closer look at the kinds of outdoor locations described in Behn’s comedies. As in the case of her indoor descriptions, Behn’s stage directions concerning outdoor locations remain vague. The scenes are laid in a “garden” or a “street,” and once inside a church (The Second Part of the Rover 1681, I. 2) or on board a ship (The False Count 1682, IV. 1), but no details are specified—for the obvious reason that set pieces of scenery had to make do for all kinds of outdoor locations. While scenic descriptions are rare, the movements of the characters are precisely choreographed in the stage directions, as in the farcical scene in the street at night in The Feign’d Curtizans, in which characters grope around in the dark, run against each other, and fight without being able to see their opponents. Tickletext retiring hastily runs against Octavio, who is just entering, almost beats him down, Oct. strikes him a good blow, beats him back and draws: Tick. gets close up in a corner of the stage, Oct. gropes for him as Galliard does, and both meet and fight with each other […]. Enter Sir Signal […] with a dark Lanthorn […]. Advancing softly, and groping with his hands, meets the point of Oct. sword, as he is groping for Gall […]. Hops to the door: And feeling for his way with his out-strecht Arms, runs his Lanthorn in Julio's face who is just entering; finds he's oppos'd with a good push backward, and slips aside into a corner over against Tickletext. (The Feign’d Curtizans 1679, III. 1) Behn can also be quite particular when it comes to specific stage props. Thus a foolish suitor stages a serenade on top of an elephant in Sir Patient Fancy (1678, III. 1). The Emperor of the Moon asks for a “Street, with the Town Gate, where an Officer stands with a Staff like a London Constable. Enter Harlequin riding in a Calash, comes through the Gate towards the Stage, dress'd like a Gentleman sitting in it” (1687, III.

1). The scene is set in Naples, but, as the reference to the London Constable makes clear, Behn was not interested in geographical veracity, but in fact targets contemporary English follies even in plays set on the continent. As far as the geography of London is concerned, Restoration playwrights frequently mention—without describing—fashionable outdoor spaces like St. James’ Park or Mulberry Gardens. In Etherege’s Man of Mode the characters meet in the Mall,10 and in Wycherley’s Country Wife (III. 1) the notorious Horner kisses Mrs Pinchwife in the Exchange. Behn, too, refers to well-known locations such as Covent Garden, a fashionable entertainment district, but also renowned for its prostitutes (e.g., The Town Fopp) or Lincoln’s Inn Fields (e.g., The Younger Brother), and indicates the social standing of her characters by means of their London residence. Her plays, like those of all Restoration dramatists, are addressed to a sophisticated London audience well aware of the social and ideological implications of particular locations. The mere mention of a London address, a favorite coffee house or recreation space, could suggest the rank, profession, political affiliation and moral standing of dramatis personae. London’s urban geography, at the time, can roughly be divided into the City proper, the Town, and the Court. The Court resided in the palace of Whitehall, in the district of Westminster, in the West of London. Though the characters are frequently persons of rank, Behn’s comedies are never set at the English Court; though a few tragic plays and narratives are set in foreign courts, usually at some unspecified time in the past.11 Conceived as a contrast to the court, the term “City,” in Restoration England, signified the chartered City of London, which had its own administrative council, elected by the inhabitants, not the king. The City was the center of trade and commerce, but it was also the stronghold of the Whig opposition to the Tory court party, and housed many Puritans and recalcitrant adherents of the Commonwealth (Wall 1998, 152) who objected to the policies of the Stuart Kings. The so-called “cits,” that is, the inhabitants of the City,

Sederi were hence regarded as fair game in Restoration comedy for the sexual forays of young Royalists, who cuckolded the merchants and tradesmen and thereby symbolically proved the superior potency of their political convictions. In between the Court and the City was the so-called Town, the area of the theatres in Covent Garden and Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and the New Exchange in the Strand, where luxury goods were sold. As most playwrights themselves were members of the cultural elite or even the aristocracy, Restoration comedies are generally located in these fashionable recreation spaces and in the parks frequented by the nobility—rather than in the City, whose middle-class inhabitants, as Wall (1998, 149) reminds us, only became acceptable heroes in the eighteenth century. How Behn, whose father had been a barber, became immersed in these genteel literary circles is not quite clear, but biographers assume that she was introduced to them by Col. Colepeper, who, in contemporaneous parlance, was her foster-brother because her mother had been his wet-nurse (Todd 1996, 13). Behn shared the Tories’ aversion towards the City, but nonetheless set several plays there. In all of them she ridicules Whiggish citizens that dabble in treasonous politics. Behn’s London city comedies—indeed, also several comedies set abroad, in Naples or Cadiz—are thus Tory propaganda, attacking the nouveau riche merchant class as political enemies. Politics, however, rarely is in the foreground of her plays, although many scholars have discovered a hidden political agenda; rather, Whig sympathies in general provide an implicit justification why these traders and merchants should be cheated and cuckolded. In The City Heiress, for instance, Sir Timothy Treatall, “an old seditious Knight” modelled on the Whig leader Shaftesbury, “keeps open house for Commonwealthsmen and true blue Protestants” (1682, Actors Names), but in fact craves the crown of Poland. He is robbed by his royalist nephew and tricked into marrying the latter’s whore. The zealous Nonconformist Sir Patient Fancy probably received his title during the Commonwealth and is “vainly proud” of “his Rebellious opinion, for his Religion means nothing but that […]” (1678, II. 1). The two old aldermen in The Luckey Chance have no moral scruples about ruining young cavaliers financially, but fearfully gape at each other when they are supposed to hurry to the Guild Hall because the City is purportedly up in Arms about a new plot (1687, III. 1)—a satirical jibe at the various Whig-engendered plots of the time, from the Popish Plot (1678–1681) and Exclusion Crisis (1678–1681) to the Rye House Plot (1683). Inhabitants of the City in Behn’s plays are thus portrayed as both potentially treasonous and politically incompetent. A greater space is given to politics in the novel Love Letters between a Nobleman and his Sister, which features Charles II’s illegitimate son, The Duke of Monmouth, in the guise of Cesario, who is persuaded by his mistress to trust in foolish oracles, starts a rebellion against his father, but proves militarily inept. In contrast, most of Behn’s royalist heroes do not directly engage in political plotting.12 In The Rover, the fact that the English cavaliers are exiled during the Commonwealth vouches for their loyalty and character, and the eponymous hero even captains the ship transporting the Stuart Prince; but politics is not a major theme. In a play also set during the Commonwealth, two young royalists wage a cuckolding war (rather than a political campaign) against the eponymous Roundheads. And the very fact that he hates his Whig uncle is meant to exonerate the rather unpleasant rakish hero in The City Heiress. Though the Whigs are reviled, however, kings are not always painted positively in Behn’s works, but are tyrannical (as in The Forc’d Marriage or the story “Agnes de Castro,” or lecherous, like Oroonoko’s old grandfather). Hitherto, when talking about the public space in the sense of politics, I have only mentioned male characters, since politics was a male domain. And yet, at the end of the century England again had two queens—Mary, who reigned jointly with her husband, William of Orange, and Anne, the last of the Stuart monarchs. Particularly at the time of Queen Anne (that is, after Behn’s death) several aristocratic women gained enormous influence—first and foremost, Sarah Churchill, Duchess of Marlborough. These women prove that although females (below a queen) were excluded from political office, their actual leverage could be considerable. Indeed, already at the time of Charles II there was wide-spread fear of the influence of his mistresses on his policies—particularly the Catholics among them were suspected of favoring an alliance with France abhorred by the majority of Protestants.

Sederi

Although Behn had undoubted sympathies for transgressive women, the portraits she paints of politically active women in her works is no more flattering than that of politically active men. The lecherous Spanish Queen in Abdelazar is unfit for rule and falsely denounces her own son as a bastard. The Puritan upstart Lady Lambert in The Roundheads craves the crown of England. Caesario’s superstitious mistress in Love Letters between a Nobleman and his Sister has a baneful influence on his political decisions. This negative picture of women dabbling in politics is perhaps all the more surprising as Behn herself had been sent to the continent as a political agent in the 1660s to spy on the Commonwealth-men who had found refuge there. She was by no means the only female spy at the time (Marshall 2015). She was not very successful and received little thanks and insufficient money for her labor, so that she may have ended up in debtors’ prison. Yet throughout her career in the theatre, she outed herself as a Tory supporter, and as the first professional female playwright was constantly in the public eye, taking her share of fierce satire and vituperation. In many of her Forewords, she stakes a claim to the same rights and treatments as male playwrights, attacking the idea of the theatre as a gendered space in which male dramatists were allowed to use a language and style which was considered unacceptable for women writers. Except for the narrator in Oroonoko, of whom more will be said below, none of her female characters is a (professional) writer. Most others enter the public space only to further their amours, not for professional or political reasons, and many do so in the anonymity of a disguise. But since Behn herself so forcefully laid claim to the public space, it is little wonder that she harbored sympathies for the few female characters who also openly claim it in their own right—such as the courtesan Angellica in The Rover, but also, in real life, the royal mistresses Nell Gwyn and Hortense Mancini, to whom Behn dedicated two of her works.13

The colonies Aphra Behn was not only the first professional British woman writer, she was also the first British novelist to deal with the

transatlantic slave trade. The novel Oroonoko tells the story of an enslaved African prince transported to Surinam in South America, whereas the tragi-comedy The Widdow Ranter is set in Virginia, without, however, engaging in a debate about slavery. In imperialist texts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the virgin land is notoriously gendered female, to be conquered and made productive by white male explorers and colonists. Already in the Early Modern Period, the newly discovered continent was allegorized as a female figure (Traub 2015, 25). Such a gendering of the land is not found in Behn’s texts, although she, too, regards Surinam as a provider of consumer goods for the home market. In Oroonoko, the colonial space is racialized, as in a slave society the status of men and women depends on their ethnicity, not on their gender. I do not want to go into the much-discussed issue of race in Oroonoko here, but will concentrate on the gendering of spaces. And from this perspective it becomes clear that the colonial spaces in Behn’s two works offer surprising possibilities to both men and women, although, as in Britain, women are excluded from participation in government. “With more accuracy than is her wont” Behn regales her metropolitan readers with descriptions of the exotic wonders of South America, thereby participating in the “generation of geographical knowledge,” for which there was a huge market (Runge 2014, 22 and 20). In Surinam, the female narrator and her family excite notice when they arrive and live in “the best house” (Oroonoko 1688, 152) in the colony. Yet, although they befriend prince Oroonoko, they have no power to avert his torture after the failed slave rising or to prevent his execution, which is ordered by a brutal deputy governor supported by a militia made up of the dregs of society. However, the narrator (often identified with Behn herself) does play a minor political role after all. She entertains the royal African couple in her house, but at the same time acts as a kind of spy on him, reporting to the colonists his impatience to be set free: she thus plays a role similar to that which Behn herself enacted in the Low Countries. Nonetheless, her political influence is negligible. But the colonial space affords other freedoms to the narrator unheard of at home: for once, she becomes the biographer of a prince. Although her feigned regret that, after the death of all sympathetic male eye- witnesses, “only a Female pen” (Oroonoko 1688, 108) remains to record Oroonoko’s story seems to echo the “British dismissal of female history” (Runge 2014, 26), the narrator, in fact, assertively Sederi inserts herself into the contemporary tradition of life writing, which was considered a male domain. She also acts as an amateur zoologist, describing in detail the strange South American animals and proudly telling the reader that she donated her collection of rare insects to His Majesty’s Antiquaries. Through such a gift, she participates in the scientific discourses of the time, to which women as a rule did not contribute. She also describes the life and customs of the native Caribs, and goes on an adventurous trip into the jungle to visit a remote indigenous tribe. And she ventures on tiger hunts. Indeed, the outdoor space is fully accessible to the narrator: she joins in the men’s pastime, without being censured for transgression. On the other hand, when the slave rebellion breaks out, she fearfully flees down river, assuming the character of a timid maiden she has shunned in all other parts of the narrative. Surinam even gives agency to Oroonoko’s wife Imoinda—more so than Coramantien in Africa, her birthplace: in Coramantien, she could not defend herself from being forced into the old king’s harem; however, once the slave rebellion breaks out in Surinam, she bravely fights with bows and arrows at her husband’s side and even wounds the villainous deputy governor. However, the fact that the pregnant Imoinda later acquiesces in being killed by her husband, to prevent her violation by the rabble and the enslavement of their child, severely brackets the African woman’s agency. The issue of race is less prominent in The Widdow Ranter. Bacon and the Indians against whom he fights share the same aristocratic culture and behave with the same chivalry. In this play, too, however, women enter the public space as a matter of course: the Indian Queen takes part in the battle and is killed, and the eponymous heroine disguises herself as a man and challenges her lover to a duel.14 Although the fighting of cross-dressed heroines is a conventional motif in Restoration drama, Ranter’s attitude is not. She plans to “beat the Rascal”—which shocks her maid: “Beat him Madam? What a woman beat a Lieutenant General […]. But if he should kill you Madam?”—upon which Ranter assures her: “I’le take care to make it as Comical a Duel as the best of ‘em, as much in Love as I am, I do not intend to dy it’s Martyr” (The Widdow Ranter 1690, IV. 2).

Although her low birth is generally known and her behavior is quite unlady-like—she smokes and drinks—Ranter is socially accepted in Virginia. Colonial society is much less socially segregated than in Britain: Ranter invites the local gentry to her house as well as the hoi polloi who have become counsellors and Justices of Peace in America. These men serve on the colonial council, although they come from the lowest social classes, and some are even transported criminals. It is thus in the field of social mobility that the colonies provide the most ample opportunities to white settlers: the Widow Ranter, a former indentured servant, was bought by a rich planter, who married her and left her a wealthy widow. In the end she marries a dashing lieutenant general, rising into the local gentry. Such a career would have been difficult to imagine in Britain—though I suspect that even there her fortune of 50,000 pounds would have made many a younger brother forget about her descent. Another rich widow of un-genteel birth in the play marries a nobleman’s second son and thus climbs the social ladder.15 Men, too,—whether they be penniless younger brothers or transported rogues—can gain wealth in America and rise in social class—the latter much to Behn’s displeasure, who disdains the influence of the rabble on the colonial government and deplores “the disastrous outcome of transporting English criminals to build new English places abroad” (Runge 2014, 29). These characters behave treacherously and unscrupulously, making a farce of justice— although some putative gentlemen like the deputy governor in Oroonoko are really no better. In the latter narrative Behn almost gloats over the fact that many of these villains got their comeuppance when the Dutch took over Surinam—deeply though she regrets the loss of the colony. In the comedy, her tone is more conciliatory. The low-class counsellors are removed from office, and men from the traditional British elite—officers and second sons of the gentry—take their place. But the riff-raff remains in Virginia, a tolerated part of the population, and continues to thrive.

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Conclusion Male characters in Behn’s works believe in the gendering of spaces in so far as they heedlessly classify women’s morals and social position on the basis of the space in which they move. Men themselves, however, think they can lord it over private and public spaces alike. But Behn’s female characters will not be confined and controlled. To be sure, Behn was keenly aware that both the law and social practice disadvantaged women and limited their freedom. In most of her plays, however, women successfully negotiate the private, public and colonial spaces, using their sexual attraction and wit to get what they want. Behn thus questions the gendering of spaces and the power and disempowerment that go with it. The house, the town and the colonies offer chances and threats to both men and women. And Behn delights in portraying women who overcome the obstacles of social conventions and take their fates into their own hands.

References Allestree, Richard. 1673 [1727]. The Ladies Calling. In 2 Parts. 12th impression. Oxford: Printed at the theatre. Beggs, Courtney. 2014. “Writing from the Road: Space and Spectacle of Hortense Mancini, Duchess of Mazarin.” In Gender and Space in British Literature, 1660–1820, edited by Mona Narain and Karen Gevirtz, 117–30. Farnham: Ashgate. Behn, Aphra. 1677. The Rover, Or, The Banish’t Cavaliers. London: Printed for John Amery. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Behn, Aphra. 1678. Sir Patient Fancy. London: Printed by E. Flesher for Richard Tonson. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Behn, Aphra. 1679. The Feign’d Curtizans, Or, A Nights Intrigue. London: Printed for Jacob Tonson. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Behn, Aphra. 1681.The Second Part of the Rover. London: Printed for Jacob Tonson. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Behn, Aphra. 1682. The City Heiress, Or, Sir Timothy Treat-All. London: Printed for D. Brown. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database.

Behn, Aphra. 1682. The False Count, Or, A New Way to Play an Old Game. London: Printed by M. Flesher, for Jacob Taison. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Behn, Aphra. 1687. The Emperor of the Moon: A Farce. London: Printed by R. Holt, for Joseph Knight, and Francis Saunders. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Behn, Aphra. 1687 The Luckey Chance, Or, An Alderman’s Bargain. London: Printed by R. H. for W. Canning. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Behn, Aphra. 1688. The Fair Jilt. London: Printed by R. Holt, for Will. Canning. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Behn, Aphra. 1688. Oroonoko. London: Printed for Will. Canning. English Prose Drama Full-Text. Behn, Aphra. 1690. The Widdow Ranter, Or, The History of Bacon in Virginia. London: Printed for James Knapton. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Boebel, Dagny. 1996. “In the Carnival World of Adam’s Garden. Roving and Rape in Behn’s Rover.” In Broken Boundaries. Women & Feminism in Restoration Drama, edited by Katherine M. Quinsey, 54–70. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Brewer, Daniel. 2004. “Lights in Space.” Eighteenth Century Studies 37 (2): 171–86. Etherege, George. 1675. The Man of Mode, Or, Sir Foppling Flutter. London: Printed by J Macock, for Henry Herringman. English Prose Drama Full- Text Database. Flather, Amanda. 2007. Gender and Space in Early Modern England. Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Hughes, Derek. 2004. “Aphra Behn and the Restoration Theatre.” In The Cambridge Companion to Aphra Behn, edited by Derek Hughes and Janet Todd, 29–45. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hultquist, Aleksandra. 2014. “Creole Space: Jamaica, Fallen Women, and British Literature.” In Gender and Space in British Literature, 1660–1820, edited by Mona Narain and Karen Gevirtz, 33-48. Farnham: Ashgate. Marshall, Alan. 2015. “’Memorialls for Mrs Affora’: Aphra Behn and the Restoration Intelligence World.” Women’s Writing 22 (1): 13–33. Sederi

Mendelson, Sarah, and Patricia Crawford. 1998. Women in Early Modern England 1550–1720. Oxford: Clarendon. Milhous, Judith, and Robert Hume. 1985. Producible Interpretations. Eight English Plays 1675–1707. Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press. Narain, Mona, and Karen Gevirtz. 2014. “Introduction.” In Gender and Space in British Literature, 1660–1820, edited by Mona Narain and Karen Gevirtz, 1–16. Farnham: Ashgate. Ogborn, Miles. 1998. Spaces of Modernity. London’s Geographies 1680–1780. New York, London: Guilford Press. Orlin, Lena Cowen. 1994. Private Matters and Public Culture in Post- Reformation England. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Oxford English Dictionary Online. 2018. Oxford University Press. Accessed July 13, 2018. http://www.oed.com/ Pacheco, Anita. 1998. “Rape and the Female Subject in Aphra Behn’s The Rover.” ELH 65 (2): 323–45. Pacheco, Anita. 2000. “Consent and Female Honor in The Luckey Chance.” In Aphra Behn (1640–1689). Identity, Alterity, Ambiguity, edited by Mary Ann O’Donnell, Bernard Dhuicq and Guyonne Ledoc, 145–54. Paris: Édition L’Harmattan. Pearson, Jacqueline. 2003. “The Least Certain of Boundaries: Gendered Bodies and Gendered Spaces in Early Modern Drama.” SEDERI 13: 163– 81. Runge, Laura L. 2014. “Constructing Place in Oroonoko.” In Gender and Space in British Literature, 1660–1820, edited by Mona Narain and Karen Gevirtz, 19–31. Farnham: Ashgate. Stewart, Ann Marie. 2010. The Ravishing Restoration. Aphra Behn, Violence and Comedy. Selinsgrove: Susquehanna University Press. Todd, Janet. 1996. The Secret Life of Aphra Behn. London: Andre Deutsch. Traub, Valerie. 2015. “History in the Present Tense: Feminist Theories, Spacialized Epistemologies, and Early Modern Embodyment.” In Mapping Gendered Routes and Spaces in the Early Modern World, edited by Merry E. Wiesner-Hanks, 15–53. Farnham: Ashgate. Wall, Cynthia. 1998. The Literary and Cultural Spaces of Restoration London. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Wall, Wendy. 2002. Staging Domesticity. Household Work and English Identity in Early Modern Drama. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wycherley, William. 1673. The Gentleman Dancing Master. London: Printed by J. M. for Henry Herringman and Thomas Dring. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Pacheco, Anita. 1675. The Country Wife. London: Printed for Thomas Dring. English Prose Drama Full-Text Database.

How to cite this article: Rubik, Margarete. “The house, the city, and the colony in the works of Aphra Behn: Gendered spaces and the freedoms and dangers they afford.” SEDERI 28 (2018): 55–78. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Department of English and American Studies – Campus der Universität Wien, Hof 8.3 – Spitalgasse 2-4 – 1090 Wien – Austria Submission: 30/05/2017 Acceptance: 20/07/2017

“The sweet fruition of an earthly crown”: Elemental mastery and ecophobia in Tamburlaine the Great and Doctor Faustus

Zümre Gizem Yılmaz Hacettepe University, Turkey

ABSTRACT Although the elements have been exploited for human ends in early modern discursive practices, they have so saturated social and cultural life that writers of the period could not avoid mentioning elemental formations. Marlowe’s Tamburlaine, Part I and Part II (1587) and Doctor Faustus (1592) are significant representatives of early modern English drama that highlight the inter-relationships between the human body and the elements. This study examines elemental agency, to show how the agential capacity of the four classical elements unveils ecophobic treatment; and how the ecophobic strain in the human psyche is reflected in Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlaine and Doctor Faustus.

KEYWORDS: ecophobia; elemental ecocriticism; Christopher Marlowe; Tamburlaine; Doctor Faustus. “La dulce fruición de una corona “A doce fruição de uma coroa terrena”: terrenal”: dominio de los elementos y Domínio elemental e ecofobia em ecofobia en Tamburlaine the Great y Tamburlaine the Great e em Doctor Doctor Faustus Faustus RESUMEN: Aunque se ha explorado el uso RESUMO: Embora os elementos tenham de los elementos con fines humanos en sempre sido explorados para fins huma- las prácticas discursivas de la edad nos, especificamente através de práticas moderna temprana, éstas han inundado discursivas proto-modernas, também a de tal modo la vida social y cultural que vida social e cultural está saturada com los escritores de la época no han podido eles, pelo que os escritores que evitar mencionar las formaciones descreviam o estilo de vida proto- elementales. Las obras de Christopher moderno não podiam evitar mencionar Marlowe Tamburlaine, Part I and Part II formações elementais. Tamburlaine, Part I (1587) y Doctor Faustus (1592) son and Part II (1587) e Doctor Faustus (1592), ejemplos significativos del modo en que de Christopher Marlowe, são exemplos el teatro inglés de la época moderna significativos da forma como o drama do temprana destaca las interrelaciones Renascimento inglês pôs em destaque as entre el cuerpo humano y los elementos. inter-relações entre corpo humano e os Este trabajo analiza la intervención de los elementos. Assim, este estudo dedica-se à elementos para mostrar que la capacidad análise da agência elemental; à forma agencial de los cuatro elementos clásicos como esta capacidade de agência revela desvela un tratamiento ecofóbico, y cómo um tratamento ecofóbico; e ao modo esta tendencia ecofóbica de la mente hu- como esta psique ecofóbica se vê refletida Sederi mana se refleja en Tamburlaine, Part I and em Tamburlaine e Doctor Faustus, de Part II y Doctor Faustus, de Marlowe. Marlowe. PALABRAS CLAVE: ecofobia; ecocrítica de PALAVRAS-CHAVE: ecofobia; ecocrítical los elementos; Christopher Marlowe; elemental; Christopher Marlowe; Tamburlaine; Doctor Faustus. Tamburlaine; Doctor Faustus.*

According to ancient philosophers, the physical environment is essential in shaping human practices and discourses. In this framework, aggregating Thales’ water, Anaximenes’ air, Xenophanes’ earth, and Heraclitus’ fire, Empedocles underlined the agential capacity of the elements (water, air, earth, and fire) as the main roots (rhizomata) of the universe. He formed his cosmogony around two factors (Love-philia and Strife-neikos), and explicated that the balance of the elements depends on these two factors. Moreover, human civilization was shaped very much by the interaction between the human and the elements; for instance, human endeavors to transform natural forms such as metals found in the ground into useful tools marked new epochs throughout human history. Apart from their cultural impact on human civilization, the elements are significant in their own right, in that they are habitats for organisms. As the core of multiple becomings including those of humans, the elements are where beings (both human and nonhuman) come from, and form the material on which all lives are based. The elements are the backbone of existence. The elements are our home. The rediscovery of the elemental cosmogony of ancient philosophy (sapienta) leads towards the rising awareness of the individual’s significance in the Renaissance. This, according to Simon Estok, points to “a high point of anthropocentric thinking and desires for environmental control” (2008, 78). That is, human attempts to control the environment prove unsuccessful, with unpredictable results, and negative long-term repercussions for humankind. Paradoxically, nature is then blamed for being evil towards humanity. Estok clarifies this ecophobic mindset in relation to the control drive as follows: “If predictability defines order, then unpredictability (at the heart of ecophobia) is the essence of chaos” (2011, 80). Therefore, human beings’ attempts to transform the bits of nature which can be controlled, or—perhaps more properly put—

Sederi tamed by human hands and civilization leads to unpredictabilies— chaos—for which humanity would hold nature accountable.This chaos is contrasted to civilized, ordered human culture, producing an anthropocentric dilemma. In other words, ecophobia uncovers itself when human beings try to control the elements. Inevitably, this control impulse has marked early modern history, and also interpenetrated into the imagination of the early modern writers. One of the famous English Renaissance playwrights, Christopher Marlowe (1564–1593) frequently captured ecophobia towards the physical environment in his plays. Despite his short career, Marlowe contributed to the English theatre with such monumental plays as Tamburlaine the Great (1587), Doctor Faustus (1592), The Jew of Malta (1592), The Massacre at Paris (1593) and Edward II (1594). Written in two parts (Part I in 1587 and Part II in 1588), and becoming “an overnight success” (Hopkins 2005, xii), Tamburlaine the Great is a tragedy about conquests. In the play, a Scythian shepherd, Tamburlaine, gradually ascends to the position of the conqueror of the Earth, which helps him establish his full identity as the ultimate ruler and the scourge and wrath of God on earth. His example illustrates how the ecophobic attitude prevails in human practices towards nature since the desire for conquest equates the colonial enslavement and rape of the earth with the desire to conquer the world. Similarly, The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus mirrors ecophobic practices of the time. Interestingly, there are two different texts of the same play, and these are referred to as the A-text and the B-text. Leah S. Marcus argues that the two carry different ideological freight—the A text could be described as more nationalist and more Calvinist, Puritan, or ultra-Protestant, the B text as more internationalist, imperial, and Anglican, or Anglo-Catholic—but each version places the magician at the extreme edge of transgression in terms of its own implied system of values. (1996, 42) Regardless of slight differences between these two texts, Doctor Faustus captures the early modern craving for knowledge to solve the mysteries of the universe as well as to determine the place of humans among other beings. The play, in this sense, significantly reflects Renaissance ideals of knowledge acquisition and self- enhancement; yet, Faustus commits himself to black magic, which,

consequently, becomes his doom. The play depicts a scholar, Doctor Faustus, who has sold his soul to the devil to acquire more knowledge, power, and status, but becomes a desperate man, doomed to eternal torture in hell. The protagonists of these two plays (Tamburlaine the Great and Doctor Faustus) are both remarkable heroes as they surrender themselves to “the sweet fruition of an earthly crown” (Tamburlaine I.2.7, 29) in their own ways; Faustus wants to be crowned with infinite knowledge while Tamburlaine desires to obtain infinite domination with a real earthly crown. These two plays are significant in mirroring ecophobia towards the elements in the early modern imagination. Estok defines ecophobia as “an irrational and groundless fear or hatred of the natural world, as present and subtle in our daily lives and literature as homophobia and racism and sexism” (2011, 4). Ecophobia is one expression of the control impulse of the human within the physical realm. Nonetheless, “the more control we seem to have over the natural environment, the less we actually have” (Estok 2011, 5). Hence, the more human beings try to control the elements, the more catastrophic the results become. David Macauley labels this control as domination, and elaborates on this idea stating that pollution took the form of an assault on the elements as places and environmental conditions. Mining technologies and the timber industry in particular adversely affected air, earth, and water. The quest for mercury, lead, and arsenic—which contributed to bone, brain, and blood diseases—often caused streams to be redirected, dried up, or contaminated. The increasing removal of forests visibly scarred the landscape. Herodotus, for example, took note of the fact that an entire mountain was upended in search of gold. Emerging metallurgy emitted smoke and poisonous gases into the air in addition to the wood and charcoal burned as fuel. And high noise levels were often reached in urban centers. (2010, 128) Interestingly, especially in Renaissance ideals, the ecophobic control impulse in human psyche is also directed towards the body itself. The body is humans’ only extension into the earthy materials. Hence, similar to the control drive towards the physical environment, human beings have also declared their ultimate dominion over their inferior material body. The body is thoroughly soiled, as Jan E. Feerick and Vin Nardizzi contend, and this “shows how even live human bodies prove earth-like because they are host to creatures that we typically imagine as burrowing through the soil’s layers, Sederi worms” (2012, 9). Within the same framework, Ian MacInnes, underscoring the potential of putrefication within all bodies, notes that “virtually everything, it seems, has worms within it, or at least the potential to develop worms” (MacInnes 2012, 258). In Bartholomew the Englishman’s monumental On the Properties of Things (1240), translated by John Trevisa in 1397, the formations of vermin are described in the following terms: a worm is called “vermis” and is a beast that often is birthed from flesh and plants and often birthed from cabbage, and sometimes from putrefaction of humors, and sometimes from mixing of male and female [i.e., sexual reproduction], and sometimes from eggs, as it occurs with scorpions, tortoises, and newts. (Steel 2015, 214)1 Hence, the body itself is home to various microorganisms; it is constantly penetrated, absorbed and digested by earthy microorganisms such as worms. Therefore, it has become a source of fear and hatred. Towards the physical environs or towards the human body, anthropocentric fear and hatred (ecophobia) have always revealed themselves throughout human history. Yet, the anthropocentric longing for ultimate control over material surroundings which prevailed in the early modern period had detrimental repercussions. These detrimental consequences resulting from human practices are linked to the wrath of nature, hence demonstrating how ecophobia works. That is to say, the main reason for environmental deterioration is the denial of elemental agency. As the agential acknowledgment of the elements as living beings with potentials to act upon the human realm would threaten the anthropocentric primacy of the human, the elements are targeted as the source of fear and hatred. Yet, in Renaissance philosophies hatred and fear are directed towards not only the physical environment but also the material body itself because to appreciate the spiritual beauty as well as intellective goodness, one has to avoid physical and bodily desires in order not to fall into such weaknesses as lust. Thus, human beings accommodate an inherent hatred, loathing and anger against their own bodies. This hatred is exercised since their bodies are the

allegedly restrictive and bounding factor for the exertion of the rational and divine ascent of humans. The body materially becomes an elemental paradigm. Jeffrey Cohen and Lowell Duckert point to the inhabitance of the cosmic elements within the body (microcosm of the Bigger Nature), and they describe bodies as “temporary hosts for itinerant tales [that] are themselves elemental, every mind, soul, eye, or book a recording device to give local habitation as story proliferates, mutates, moves along. Our knowing the world is matter-mediated (enabled, impressed), an intimacy of substance, force, flesh, trope, plot, and weather” (2015, 11). Thus, the body becomes the lens through which the physical environment can be experienced by a human being. Estok points to the anthropocentric and ecophobic hatred towards the physical environment contending that “nature often becomes the hateful object in need of our control, the loathed and feared thing that can only result in tragedy if left in control” (2011, 6). Likewise, the body is perceived to draw the human towards earthly flaws causing descent from pure virtue; thereby the body becomes the principal “nature” for which human beings feel ecophobia inherently. From another perspective, the allegation that the perfect soul is captivated and contaminated by the material body is inherent in Western philosophy and religion. Ken Hiltner has drawn attention to the fact that “Eve (like all human beings, imagined as a split amalgam of spirit and flesh) was portrayed as falling because she privileged the flesh while marginalizing the spirit” (2014, 86); she thus encompasses the interminable clash of body and mind (soul). In this regard, this innate ecophobic impulse is directed towards the body (flesh), which is the key material point of exposure to the elements as well as to the natural phenomena. Therefore, the Renaissance aspiration was to ascend towards ultimate beauty employing mind and reason by discarding the material body. So as to exercise the mind, one has to have ultimate control over both the human body itself and the physical environment, an endeavor closely associated with the control impulse in human beings that arises from ecophobia. In Doctor Faustus, the anthropocentric power is depicted as the domestication of the elements instrumental for human use:

EVIL ANGEL Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art Wherein all nature’s treasury is contained. Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky, Lord and commander of these elements. (2008, 142) Sederi

Moreover, as the body is the material extension which links human beings to the physical environment, this struggle to belong to the proper sphere is directly observed within the human body. In the play, the body generates an “ontological duplicity” (2004, 468) as Richard Halpern points out. The problem around this duplicity brings forth a distinction between ontology (being-matter) and epistemology (knowing-discourse), which reveals itself through on kai me on (being, not being). Faustus states that “Bid On kai me on farewell. Galen, come!|Seeing ubi desinit philosophus, ibi incipit medicus” (2008, 140), thus making a clear contrast between two disciplines—philosophy and medicine. Offering to abandon the epistemological questions philosophers ask, he desires to deal with physical and material formations since, as Faustus continues in Latin, ubi desinit philosophus, ibi incipit medicus (where the philosopher leaves off, the physician begins). Nevertheless, the play abounds with problems related to on kai me on. The play starts and ends with Faustus’s questioning his ontological and epistemological status. Halpern argues that this dilemma “of on kai me on pertains not only to theatrical language, of course, but to the spectacular or embodied play as well, marking its thereness as simultaneously empty or lacking, being and nonbeing at once” (2004, 468). Human beings harshly control their bodies, as an embodiment of their hatred for being bound to materiality, thus causing them to question their being/nonbeing. Blamed for digressing from ultimate goodness and eternal bliss, the human body, in this sense, is subjugated once mind is exerted on the material formations, which brings forth ecophobia. Similarly, both parts of Tamburlaine the Great portray Tamburlaine extending and gradually developing his subjective identity via conquest of the physical environments, which firmly settles his anthropocentric reign. So as to exert his so-called power and control over the natural elements, he elevates himself to a status of pure intellect. Nonetheless, in order to achieve this supposed separation between human and nonhuman based on the dichotomy between body and mind, he has to detach himself from any natural ties. Thus, “Tamburlaine, after all, dramatically casts off his shepherd’s garb when he embarks on his career as a conqueror” (Borlik 2011, 138). In a similar vein, in the second part of the play, Tamburlaine sees the use of the four elements as preconditions for being a good warrior and conqueror, and he utters these words, worried about his sons’ future careers after his death:

I’ll have you learn to sleep upon the ground, March in your armour thorough watery fens, Sustain the scorching heat and freezing cold, Hunger and thirst—right adjuncts of the war; And after this to scale a castle wall, Besiege a fort, to undermine a town, And make whole cities caper in the air. (2008, 97) To attain the centric reign and ultimate subjectivity, one has to dominate and domesticate the natural environment, similar to the Neo-Platonic idea of taking the body under the control of the human mind to ascend towards the intellective soul. From this viewpoint, he/she should also properly educate the body as it is the only material intersection point of the physical environments and the human being. Therefore, human mind ordains the body to utilize the elements on his/her behalf. Ironically though, throughout Tamburlaine the Great, Marlowe also makes numerous references to the elemental philosophy of the time, obtained with the rediscovery of the ancient classics and sapienta (wisdom). Drew Daniel points to Tamburlaine’s elemental and material consciousness noting that “Tamburlaine dynamically experiences the human body as an elemental assemblage, materially composed of earth, air, fire, and water, set eternally in conflict with itself” (2014, 289). For example, Tamburlaine demands that his followers take an oath of allegiance by swearing their loyalty until their “bodies turn to elements, and both […] [their] souls aspire celestial thrones” (2008, 15), which underlines the agency of the elements on bodies. More specifically, Tamburlaine talks about his material becoming with the recognition of his own elemental formation: Nature, that framed us of four elements Warring within our breasts for regiment, Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds. Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend The wondrous architecture of the world And measure every wand’ring planet’s course, Still climbing after knowledge infinite And always moving as the restless spheres, Wills us to wear ourselves and never rest Until we reach the ripest fruit of all, That perfect bliss and sole felicity, The sweet fruition of an earthly crown. (2008, 28) Sederi

Tamburlaine utters the necessity of acquiring aspiring minds, which, he mentions, is to perceive the material and elemental formations within one’s own soul. This ideology is in direct contrast with the anthropocentric point of view which strictly separates the intellectual existence of human beings (discursive formations) from the merely instrumental presence of nonhumans (material formations). Claiming to exist within the elemental and intellectual intertwinement, Tamburlaine puts forward the co-existence of mind and body in the human beings. Yet, this co-emergence is only attributed to the human body as the privilege of human mind that is celebrated throughout the play. Apart from highlighting the ontological and epistemological arguments around human beings and the elemental bodies, these two plays are also crucial in disclosing the agencies of the elements, especially of fire in Doctor Faustus and of earth in Tamburlaine the Great. For instance, although Faustus’ inspiration to obtain power is to dominate four main elements as he desires to be the “Lord and commander of the […] elements” (2008, 142), fire predominates throughout the play. The play echoes that fire is active, and with its agency it modifies its surroundings. Fire contributes to the sustainability of the ecosystem through transforming beings and things. Although fire seems to annihilate biological life, it only modifies it: “There’s always something left behind, some bodies or fragments, warm but insubstantial to the touch. These gray remnants make good fertilizer. Despite fire’s violent ascents and turnings, not everything vanishes” (Mentz 2015, 73). The agential capacity of fire uncovers itself in the play especially during the contract scene in which Faustus sells his soul to Lucifer by means of Mephistopheles:

FAUSTUS But Mephistopheles, My blood congeals, and I can write no more.

MEPHISTOPHELES I’ll fetch thee fire to dissolve it straight. […] Enter Mephistopheles with a chafer of coals

MEPHISTOPHELES Here’s fire. Come Faustus, set it on.

FAUSTUS So. Now the blood begins to clear again. (2008, 152) The congealed blood hints at the agential movement of the body that is ignored for the sake of acquiring more knowledge about the nature of human beings and the universe. This ecophobic

subjugation of material agency at the cost of Faustus’s soul embodies the period’s lust for learning more sapienta. Furthermore, although Faustus desires to exercise his reason to discard his materiality which is required to ascend towards the divine reign, he, on the contrary, descends, trapped in his greed. Interestingly though, despite its subjugation as the main source of the existential descent, the body endeavors to inhibit this descent. That is to say, as the body is the elemental representation of the human existence, Faustus also tries to control his body; yet, the body reacts against Faustus’ oppression in cooperation with the agency of fire. On similar grounds, Stevie Simkin underlines that “Faustus’s own body rebels against him as he prepares to seal the pact with Lucifer is further proof both of his foolishness and the terrible danger he is courting” (2001, 97). On the other hand, the interaction between fire and blood uncloaks the power of fire in changing the material and discursive formations. The agency of fire endures throughout the play with several references to fireworks especially in cases of displaying lust, wrath, and chaos. For instance, when Faustus demands a wife, the stage direction makes it clear that fireworks are existent on stage: “[Exit Mephistopheles, then re-]enter with a Devil dressed like a woman, with fireworks” (2008, 155). Though Simkin highlights that “the fireworks most likely signify venereal disease” (2001, 140), fireworks, in this case, embody lust and prurience. Similarly, the devils enter the stage with special firework effects to represent how Faustus feels. Hence, fireworks become the mediator for Faustus to express himself. Fireworks are also used to create a chaotic atmosphere on the stage, which adds a carnivalesque dimension to the play: “[Faustus and Mephistopheles] beat the Friars, and fling fireworks among them, and so exeunt” (2008, 165). Following the Pope’s feast, Faustus reverses the celebratory mood into a chaotic and unholy situation. Moreover, to attack the clergymen further polishes Faustus’ rebellion against religious dogma. Faustus desires to transcend limited human knowledge bestowed by divine rule via black magic. Therefore, Faustus channels his wrath for being endowed with a limited power toward the clergymen. In demonstrating his wrath, he makes use of the destructive agency of fire embodied in fireworks. Significantly, beginning with the Renaissance, fireworks have been “used to mark royal or state events into the modern period” as Sederi

Nicholas Daly notes, “including births, birthdays, and marriages; military victories; peace agreements, such as that at Aix-La-Chapelle in 1749, which ended the War of the Austrian Succession and was marked by firework displays all over Europe, and so on” (2011, 258). Hence, prior to when “flamethrowers, bombs, and guns filled the world with their terror, gunpowder was the servant of delight and the handmaiden of wonder” (Kelly 2004, x). Nevertheless, the use of fireworks as a way to show off transmits “a literal reminder to the populace of the state’s firepower” (Daly 2011, 258), which links entertainment to power demonstrations as well. Moreover, fireworks have also served for the purpose of spectacle, especially on the stage, and this corresponds to the period’s vigor to display nationalistic spectacle. From another perspective, the instrumental use of fire as fireworks procures the domestication of a natural force within the human domain which confirms the anthropocentric control impulse, that is ecophobia. Even the special effects along with fireworks were mainly “to mimic volcanoes [, which began] […] at least as early as the Renaissance” (Daly 2011, 257–58). Fireworks, in this sense, are a vehicle to demonstrate power over nature. The presence of fireworks on stage is the mobilization of pyrotechnology solely for human entertainment. Whereas the tamed agency of fire with fireworks is a demonstration of human triumph, uncontrolled fiery agencies, such as destructive volcanoes, are still the source of fear and hatred. In addition to fireworks, the play is also filled with descriptions of hell demonstrating the furious agency of fire. The portrayal of hell in the play promotes the idea that it is a place where humans agonize because of their sins, and hell is correlated with fire due to its destructive and cleansing power:

MEPHISTOPHELES Within the bowels of these elements, Where we are tortured and remain for ever. Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed In one self place, for where we are is hell, And where hell is must we ever be. (2008, 154) Fire, in this regard, serves as a means of punishment. Hence, human imagination projects hell mostly as a psychological and/or physical sphere with “engravings and pictures representing the devil with his tongue of fire” (Bachelard 1964, 102); hell is “a place of fire, smoke, and arid waste” (Nicolson 1938, 500) along with sulphur. Moreover, Anne Harris argues that fire is identical and unique to hell in

monotheist religions as there is no fire, for instance, in the Garden of Eden. There is no sputter of spark, no lick of flame, no fright of flash, no spread of blaze, no glow of ember. The cycle and spread of fire is still far off, its quality of light promised by God’s “Fiat lux!” but yet to be materialized and manipulated. Nor is there rain.[…] No rain means no storms, no flashes of lightning, no tree limbs left burning for Adam and Eve to find, no discovery of ways to disrupt the dark with fierce light. (2015, 27) Accordingly, throughout the play, Lucifer always enters the stage with thunder and lightning as reminiscences of the fiery agency in hell. The absence of fire at first and its appearance in hell in due course further the power of fire as a destructive and annihilating force, hence contributing to ecophobia towards the agency of fire. Ironically though, once it is controlled, fire becomes an ultimate symbol of enlightenment and improvement, as in the myth of Prometheus. In Greek mythology, humanity can be fully developed only when Prometheus, “the archetypal rebel” (Rudnick 70), steals fire from the gods, thereby acquiring the “capacity for the mechanical arts (techne) from Zeus, bestowing it upon us” (Macauley 36). However, throughout the play, fire cannot be controlled by human beings since it is unique to hell specifically to punish and torture the ones who disobey or revolt against the universal divine order. Even the devils at Lucifer’s command are touched by the agency of fire. For instance, in the B-Text, the audience first sees Mephistopheles in the shape of a dragon. The choice of the dragon is symbolical in terms of extending the agency of hellish fire to Faustus’ domain. On similar grounds, most of the devils in hell are creatures depicted as “the black sons of hell” (B-Text 2008, 239) because of constant burning. Moreover, hell is always referred to as a sphere in which one’s torture depends on the agency of fire. For instance, the Bad Angel describes hell as follows: Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare Into that vast perpetual torture-house. There are the Furies tossing damnéd souls On burning forks; their bodies boil in lead. There are live quarters broiling on the coals, That ne’er can die. This ever-burning chair Is for o’er-tortured souls to rest them in. These that are fed with sops of flaming fire Sederi

Were gluttons, and loved only delicates, And laughed to see the poor starve at their gates. But yet all these are nothing. Thou shalt see Ten thousand tortures that more horrid be. (B-Text 2008, 242) In this description of fiery agency in hell, the focus is on the destructive power, contributing to the ecophobic portrayal of fire in accordance with the ecophobic attitude in human beings. On the other hand, Tamburlaine the Great employs the agency of earth while depicting Tamburlaine’s struggles for power. For example, despite Tamburlaine’s attempts to alienate himself from the material and natural bonds to foreground his so-called intellectual dominion over the earth, he still needs earthy materials to accomplish his full identity as a conqueror of the earth. The most significant symbol of a successful conquest of a land is a handed- over crown decorated with precious stones and gold. Theridamas, the chief captain of, and later traitor to, the king of Persia, mentions the satisfaction of confiscating a crown, as the symbol of the ultimate power over nature and people of that land: A god is not so glorious as a king. I think the pleasure they enjoy in heaven Cannot compare with kingly joys in earth: To wear a crown enchased with pearl and gold, Whose virtues carry with it life and death; To ask, and have; command, and be obeyed; When looks breed love, with looks to gain the prize— Such power attractive shines in prince’s eyes. (2008, 24–25) Significantly, this anthropocentric power within the control of the earthy agency is celebrated by a stipulation enriched with earthy materials processed in accordance with the aesthetics human civilization imposes. Hence, natural but especially earthy, materials are essential even in establishing one’s developed social identity, which underlines that discursive formations are bound to material and natural ones. To pronounce social and discursive superiority over a land demands a symbol embellished with earthy materials. Matter and discourse (nature and culture), in this sense, cohabit the human existence. Hence, the delusional detachment and boundary between nature and culture is dissolved. Yet still, Tamburlaine the Great is filled with descriptions of how ecophobia works in human practices. For instance, an ecophobic control impulse is displayed in Tamburlaine’s references to the mapping practices of the time. Humans, as the so-called unique subjects of the universe, desire to comprehend the Earth with its openness, its depth, its motions, its time, its exact place and its infiniteness within human limitations. Hence, “in order not to be crushed by the weight of the Earth (we can’t presume to be Atlas) we are mapping multiple routes into comprehending this planet as an object and attempting to convey why such comprehension matters” (Cohen and Elkins-Tanton 2017, 69). Inasmuch as “most basically, a map takes measure of the earth” (Macauley 2010, 22), human beings try to squeeze the earth into human comprehension with mapping, which would provide the human with a power to limit and shape the earth according to human knowledge. Tamburlaine, as the wrath of God, wants to limit the whole world to his geological and geographical knowledge, and he desires to squeeze the locations into his authority: I will confute those blind geographers That make a triple region in the world, Excluding regions which I mean to trace And with this pen reduce them to a map, Calling the provinces, cities, and towns After my name and thine, Zenocrate. (2008, 52) The privilege of naming unveils delusional power of the human over the nonhuman. This, automatically, reduces the intrinsic value of the named by subjugating her/him/it to the status of non-being. Stripping off one’s essence of life means labelling that thing as non- existent and passive matter, similar to the mapping practices which exactly squeezes an independently living earth into a passive category. Likewise, Tamburlaine also subjugates some human beings. He, for example, forces Bajazeth, the Turkish emperor, to eat his own flesh, and urges him to kill his wife. Thus, this analogy with cannibalism reinforces the usurpation of both Bajazeth’s land and his kingly soul by Tamburlaine (simply because land is equated with kingship). Behaving as if Bajazeth and his wife are just a piece of flesh, hence emphasizing their material weaknesses, Tamburlaine inwardly strips them of humanity and intellective soul, and diminishes them to a nonhuman status. Enclosed in cages like nonhumans, Bajazeth and his wife, Zabina, forget their human essence of life and existence, as a result of which they both brain themselves against the cage. Sederi

Similar to the material influences on the human body, humans also impinge on the material surroundings especially with their bodily imprints on the earth. For instance, in Tamburlaine the Great, battle scenes are depicted to track the “human trampled under feet of horses, crushed among stones, dying cries of agony” (Spence 1927, 611). In this way, just as much as the human is framed by nature and elemental forces, nature is also framed by human agency. As regards to this reciprocal formation, Cohen asks: “How long does it take […] for a body to be no longer a person or a life, but material that can be moved, that can be used to build a place like this?” (2015, 70). Bajazeth, in the play, draws attention to this process by stating: “Let thousands die, their slaughtered carcasses|Shall serve for walls and bulwarks to the rest” (2008, 38). Likewise, Doctor Faustus also refers to human-elemental entanglement: O, Pythagoras’metempsychosis, were that true, This soul should fly from me and I be changed Into some brutish beast. All beasts are happy, for, when they die, Their souls are soon dissolved into elements; But mine must live still to be plagued in hell. (2008, 243–44) The more the human body gets tangled with the earthy formations through decay, deterioration, and decomposition, the more it turns into another being born out of the agency of earth. The body or its parts left in the field dissolves into other beings because the body of the defeated is denied the imperial agency, and simply left to become disintegrated into the elements, as also referred to in Tamburlaine: “Now shall his barbarous body be a prey|To beasts and fowls, and all the winds shall breathe|Through shady leaves of every senseless tree|Murmurs and hisses for his heinous sin” (2008, 88–89). Everything in life bears another potential of life within itself, and this material link with earth is uncovered especially through the battle scenes in the play. Nonetheless, contrary to the acknowledgement of the material and earthy formations depicted in the battlefield, a denial of the material dissolution of the human body into the earth is demonstrated through the attempt to preserve the body of a dead person. When his wife dies, Tamburlaine does not want to give her body to the earth since it would mean to give birth to another being at that locale out of his wife’s essence. In order not to “beautify

Larissa plains” (2008, 97), Tamburlaine wants to retard his wife’s bodily decay as much as possible: Where’er her soul be [turning to address Zenocrate’s body], thou shalt stay with me, Embalmed with cassia, ambergris, and myrrh, Not lapped in lead but in a sheet of gold; And till I die thou shalt not be interred. Then in as rich a tomb as Mausolus. (2008, 93) Tamburlaine does not want her body to be digested by other beings in the earth, and stops, in a sense, her from transforming into a kind of vermin in the soil, which also signifies his anthropocentric role- adoption in the play. Tamburlaine disrupts the natural process, and converts Zenocrate’s body into a spectacular hearse, as a result of which he claims to preserve the intellective essence of his wife. This practice also implies an anthropocentric impulse to put human beings into a distinct category from nonhuman beings. In Doctor Faustus, the description of fire demonstrates its action upon the environment as well as the human body and imagination. Moreover, the devils are staged to show the extension of fire into the human sphere. Different references to fireworks throughout the play not only hint at a variety of fiery agencies but also expose the influence of fire on human beings, hence acknowledging the agential existence of fire. In Tamburlaine, on the other hand, the protagonist claims to be the master of earth which, he thinks, is passive and mute towards human conquests. However, he is conclusively defeated by the natural cycle and the earthy agency. Refusing to bury Zenocrate’s body, Tamburlaine tries to have more control over her body since, in this way, he will retard the body from becoming an earthy being. This implies the denial of the material side of the human, and ironically at the same time the acknowledgement of material awareness. Yet still, human beings endeavor to alienate themselves from the physical environments. This, in return, points to ecophobia since Tamburlaine tries to control both the lands with the purpose of taming them within his terms and Zenocrate’s body, which grants him the agency of a wiser substance than nature itself. Similarly, Doctor Faustus is important in revealing the early modern efforts to control fire, with special references to fireworks. Hence, Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great and Doctor Faustus are significant representatives of how early modern human beings attempted to Sederi control the classical elements (specifically earth and fire) within an ecophobic worldview.

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Hopkins, Lisa. 2005. A Christopher Marlowe Chronology. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Kelly, Jack. 2004. Gunpowder, Alchemy, Bombards, and Pyrotechnics: The History of the Explosive That Changed the World. New York: Basic. Macauley, David. 2010. Elemental Philosophy: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water as Environmental Ideas. Albany: State University of New York Press. MacInnes, Ian. 2012. “The Politic Worm: Invertebrate Life in the Early Modern English Body.” In The Indistinct Human in Renaissance Literature, edited by Jean E. Feerick and Vin Nardizzi, 253–73. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Marcus, Leah S. 1996. Unediting the Renaissance: Shakespeare, Marlowe, Milton. London: Routledge. Marlowe, Christopher. 2008. Doctor Faustus and Other Plays. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mentz, Steve. 2015. “Phlogiston.” Elemental Ecocriticism: Thinking with Earth, Air, Water, and Fire, edited by Jeffrey Cohen and Lowell Duckert, 55–76. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Nicolson, Marjorie. 1938. “Milton’s Hell and the Phlegraean Fields.” University of Toronto Quarterly 7 (4): 500–13. Rudnick, Hans H. 1988. “Fire in Goethe’s Work: Neptunism and Volcanism.” In Poetics of the Elements in the Human Condition: The Airy Elements in Poetic Imagination, Breath, Breeze, Wind, Tempest, Thunder, Snow, Flame, Fire, Volcano …, edited by Anna-Teresa Tymieniecka, 65–71. Berlin: Springer Science. Simkin, Stevie. 2001. Marlowe: The Plays. New York: Palgrave. Spence, Leslie. 1927. “Tamburlaine and Marlowe.” PMLA 42 (3): 604–22. Steel, Karl. 2015. “Creeping Things: Spontaneous Generation and Material Creativity.” In Elemental Ecocriticism: Thinking with Earth, Air, Water, and Fire, edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen and Lowell Duckert, 209–36. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

How to cite this article: Yılmaz, Zümre Gizem. “’The sweet fruition of an earthly crown’: Elemental mastery and ecophobia in Tamburlaine the Great and Doctor Faustus.” SEDERI 28 (2018): 79–96. Author’s contact: Hacettepe Üniversitesi – Beytepe Kampüsü – Edebiyat Fakültesi İngiliz Dili ve Edebiyatı Bölümü – 06800 Çankaya/ANKARA – Turkey Postal address: [email protected] Submission: 02/04/2018 Acceptance: 26/07/2018 Notes

“The gully-hole of literature”: On the enregisterment of cant language in seventeenth-century England

Paula Schintu Universidad de Salamanca, Spain

ABSTRACT This essay places seventeenth-century literary renditions of cant, the language spoken by rogues and criminals in Early Modern England, into the context of “enregisterment” so as to examine its role in the process of recognition, categorization and legitimation of the canting tongue and the values it entailed. Literary representations of this variety became common in the period under analysis as a result of the criminal element that threatened the English population. Drama emerged as one of the main vehicles for the representation of cant, leading to the appearance of numerous plays that dealt with the life and adventures of English rogues. In the pages that follow, it will be argued that the study of these textual artefacts can provide valuable historical insight into the use of cant and the social connotations associated with it. In fact, the corpus-based analysis of the plays selected for this study has made it possible to identify both a common lexical repertoire and a set of sociocultural features that were associated with this underworld variety and its wicked speakers by the London non-canting audience. At the same time, it has shed light on the processes whereby this encoded speech came to index derogatory cultural values, which were spread and consumed thanks, in part, to dramatic performance, leading to the enregisterment of cant language and its recognition as a stable and unique linguistic variety. KEYWORDS: seventeenth-century drama; cant language; enregisterment.

“Las partes bajas de la literatura”: “A sarjeta da literatura”: sobre el enregisterment del lenguaje cant Sobre o enregisterment do cant (gíria) na en la Inglaterra del siglo XVII Inglaterra do século dezassete RESUMEN: Este estudio se centra en textos RESUMO: Este artigo situa as representa- literarios producidos en el siglo XVII que ções literárias, no século dezassete, do incluyen representaciones del lenguaje cant (gíria), a linguagem falada por mal- cant (germanía), la variedad utilizada por feitores e criminosos na Inglaterra proto- vagabundos y criminales en la Inglaterra moderna, no contexto do seu enregister- moderna temprana, y los sitúa en el con- ment, de forma a examinar o seu papel no texto del enregisterment para examinar su processo de reconhecimento, categoriza- papel en el proceso de reconocimiento, ção e legitimação da linguagem do cant e categorización y legitimación del cant y los dos valores nelo implicados. Representa- valores asociados a él. Las representacio- ções literárias deste género tornaram-se nes literarias de esta variedad se populari- populares durante o período em apreço Sederi zaron en este periodo como consecuencia em resultado do ambiente criminoso que del ambiente criminal que amenazaba a la ameaçava a população inglesa. O drama población inglesa. El teatro se erigió como emergiu como um dos principais veículos uno de los principales vehículos para la para a representação do cant, levando ao representación del cant, lo que dio lugar a aparecimento de várias peças que lida- la aparición de numerosas obras sobre la vam com a vida e aventuras de malfeito- vida y aventuras de los criminales ingle- res ingleses. Nas páginas que se seguem, ses. En las páginas siguientes, se expondrá argumentar-se-á que o estudo destes cómo el estudio de estos textos puede artefactos textuais pode providenciar proporcionar valiosa información histórica uma valiosa compreensão histórica do sobre el uso del cant y sus implicaciones uso do cant e das conotações sociais a ela sociales. De hecho, el análisis de corpus de associadas. Na verdade, a análise de las obras seleccionadas para este estudio corpus das peças selecionadas para este ha permitido identificar tanto un reperto- estudo permitiu identificar tanto um rio común de palabras como un conjunto repertório lexical comum como um con- de características socioculturales que el junto de traços socioculturais que eram público londinense no familiarizado con associados a esta variedade do sub- este lenguaje asociaba con esta variedad mundo e aos seus falantes malvados de los bajos fondos y con sus inmorales pelos públicos de Londres não fluentes hablantes. Al mismo tiempo, ha arrojado na gíria. Ao mesmo tempo, esta análise luz sobre los procesos a través de los torna mais claros os processos através cuales este lenguaje codificado llegó a dos quais este discurso codificado veio a indexar valores culturales peyorativos que indexar valores culturais depreciativos, se difundieron y se consumieron gracias, que foram distribuídos e consumidos entre otras cosas, a la representación graças à representação dramática, entre teatral, lo que propició el enregisterment outros meios, levando assim ao enregis- del cant y su reconocimiento como una terment do cant e ao seu reconhecimento variedad lingüística estable y única. como uma variedade linguística estável e PALABRAS CLAVE: teatro del siglo XVII; única. lenguaje cant (germanía); enregisterment. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: drama do século dezassete; cant (gíria); enregisterment.*

1. Introduction This study focuses on the representation of cant language in seventeenth-century English literature, with an emphasis on drama. Literary renditions of cant language—the variety employed by rogues, beggars and criminals in the period—have received extensive scholarly attention on account of their literary value and their lexicographic potential in relation to the variety they portray (see, e.g., Coleman 2004). So far, however, there has been little discussion, if any, about the role that these textual artefacts play in

Sederi the process of “enregisterment”1 and dissemination of this register and the sociocultural ideas it entails. For this reason, my main concern is to explore the literary representation of the canting tongue from a linguistic and sociolinguistic point of view by examining seventeenth-century roguish drama from the perspective of enregisterment so as to determine to what extent literary renditions of this variety contributed to the acknowledgement and subsequent legitimation of this form of expression. In taking this approach, I will perform a corpus-based qualitative and quantitative linguistic analysis of the data I have extracted from two of the most emblematic seventeenth- century roguish plays available in an attempt to identify the most recurrent lexical, semantic and sociocultural canting features portrayed in seventeenth-century drama: Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher’s 2 The Beggars’ Bush (1622) and Thomas Shadwell’s The Squire of Alsatia (1688). These plays have been selected with the aim of providing a representative, well-balanced sample of this variety in the period, as they were published in the early and late 1600s, respectively. Data have been organized according to the information provided by the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) and the two most relevant and comprehensive canting dictionaries in the period: Richard Head’s Canting Academy (1673) and B.E.’s A New Dictionary of the Terms Ancient and Modern of the Canting Crew (1699), which I have accessed through the database Lexicons of Early Modern English (LEME).

2. Linking language and ideology: The notion of “enregisterment” By means of the pioneering notion of “enregisterment” (see definition in footnote 1), Asif Agha investigated the emergence of

Received Pronunciation (RP) as the prestigious variety of spoken English. As shown in his study (2003), the dissemination of both prescriptive works such as pronouncing dictionaries and metalinguistic commentaries in books, newspapers, etc., during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries clearly favored the identification of RP as a stable and sustained variety, as well as the assignment of certain values to this form of expression, whose employment came to be regarded as a symbol of status in Britain. Linguistic varieties are often loaded with distinctive sociocultural values and usually denote the geographical or social origin of the speaker, as well as his or her status, thus evoking specific identities. However, cultural values are not inherent in the particular features of varieties, but rather are “a precipitate of sociohistorically locatable practices, including discursive practices, which imbue cultural forms with recognizable sign-values and bring these values into circulation along identifiable trajectories in social space” (Agha 2003, 232). So, what are these discursive practices that lead to this process of value assignment and that give way to the enregisterment and ensuing circulation of specific forms as characteristic of a given linguistic variety? Just as with RP, the enregisterment and spread of a variety depends on the dissemination of oral or textual artefacts that contain and exemplify it (Agha 2003, 243); that is, in the words of Johnstone (2009), it is determined by “metapragmatic practices” or “talk about talk” (160). The recurrent reference to a certain variety as a stable and unique form of expression helps to typify, empower and validate it, thus gradually creating, shaping and sharing the linkages between language, ideology and identity. When these metapragmatic practices become socially acceptable, as Paul Cooper argues, ideologies and attitudes about speech communities are indexed (2013, 34).3 Hence, once a set of linguistic forms of a given

Sederi variety, whether phonological, lexical, morphological, etc., is evaluated according to a particular ideological framework, it is possible to say that that variety has been “enregistered,” i.e., “represented collectively in the public imagination as a stable variety and maintained across time and region via practices that reiterate [its] value […] and its link to social status” (Johnstone 2009, 160). The role of textual artefacts such as literary works and dictionaries representing a given variety becomes particularly important when dealing with the process of enregisterment in historical contexts. Writing is “a clear conduit by which the correlation between language and sociocultural values, as well as the ideas derived from it, are foregrounded, circulated and consumed” (Ruano-García 2012, 377). The fact that a certain writer consciously decides to use a particular dialect or sociolect in writing helps to characterize and disseminate that variety and the ideas it entails. Thus, the conscious use of a variety or register is in itself an “act of enregisterment” (Clark 2013, 461). Accordingly, in what follows, I will explore literary renditions of the canting tongue in order to unveil their function in the process of enregisterment and circulation of this underworld variety and the sociocultural values most commonly associated with it.

3. Cant in literature: The Beggars’ Bush and The Squire of Alsatia Widespread social concern with cant language began to appear in the sixteenth century due to the growth of the English criminal underworld that took place as a result of an outstanding increase in population. This led to migrations of people towards the cities, especially to London, causing unemployment, impoverishment, and enhancing criminal activity. Thus, the English population became obsessed with rogues and thieves, which led to a growing demand for information about the underworld, and one of the main tools to gain some insight into its activities and secrets was its language, “cant.” The early sixteenth century saw the first written descriptions of cant language, mostly in the form of short lists from which the famous roguish pamphlets of the second half of the century were derived (Mikalachki 1994, 120). These lists and pamphlets had a defensive purpose and tried to expose the underworld tricks by unveiling its language so that, as Julie Coleman (2004, 183) points out, the purchaser could be protected against pickpockets and cheats. The initial safeguarding aim of these written artefacts soon started to change when they became “an object of aristocratic pleasure” (Blank 1996, 58). Canting lists began to be read as an entertainment (Coleman 2004, 183), and writers were quick enough to see the enticing literary possibilities that cant offered. Consequently, rogues and their language became a key element in the literature of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, which gave way to the appearance of a new genre, roguish literature, that attempted to narrate the lives and adventures of English criminals, and in which cant language played a crucial role. According to Gotti (1999, 119), this new genre encompassed different literary forms, such as pamphlets or books, although drama emerged as one of the most popular vehicles to represent the underworld and its language in the seventeenth century. As a consequence, an important number of the most renowned playwrights of the time made use of the contemporary popularity and interest in the criminal life and language to produce their plays, many of which have become part of the English literary canon and are still read and studied. This is the case of Beaumont (1584–1616) and Fletcher (1579–1625)’s popular comedy The Beggars’ Bush, first performed at court in 1622 with remarkable success. Set in Flanders, the play tells the story of a group of beggars who are trying to find a new king. A wide range of canting terms is displayed throughout the play, which suggests that the authors may have been familiar with the thieves’ secret language. Although no clear evidence of how they acquired this linguistic knowledge of the underworld has been found, Coleman (2004, 43) and Kinney (1990, 41) propose that the playwrights may have learned some of the terms they use in the play from Thomas Harman’s list in his celebrated Caveat or Warening for Cummen Cursetors (1567) or, given its date of composition, from the canting list found in Dekker’s Bellman of London series (1608), which is an imitation of Harman’s work. Moreover, the fact that Francis Beaumont entered the Inner Temple in 1600 (Beaumont and Fletcher [1619] 2004, 3) might have allowed him to have a privileged peek into the criminals’ language since the Temple was next to the White Friars area, nicknamed “Alsatia,” where contemporary criminals were settled. Sederi

Another writer who obtained great success through the use of roguish literature was Shadwell (1640–1692), with his famous and widely successful play The Squire of Alsatia (Schintu 2016). By introducing the audience to the story of foolish Belfond Senior, who is misled by a group of rogues on his first arrival in London from the North Country, the play depicts the Early Modern English criminal underworld and its canting speech. Although Shadwell’s connection with this variety remains unclear, it has been held that he gained his knowledge of the underworld during his time as a student since, like Beaumont, Shadwell studied in the Temple (Hand Browne 1913, 258–59). By means of the qualitative and quantitative analysis of the data extracted from these plays, common sociocultural and linguistic features have been identified as characteristic of seventeenth-century English cant, which may provide a more refined understanding of how the underworld was staged before a non-canting London audience, and of the way these literary artefacts led to the identification and spread of a particular set of linguistic forms and cultural values that were gradually associated with, and understood as, characteristic of the canting language.

4. The enregisterment of seventeenth-century cant language: linguistic analysis 4.1. Qualitative analysis The employment of cant language in drama involves the use in a dialogue of the different words and expressions, thus framing the dialogue within a specific context uttered by a certain character, allowing the audience to see how and to what purpose this type of language is applied. Cant in Beaumont and Fletcher’s The Beggars’ Bush is employed for characterization purposes so as to set the rogues apart from the rest of the characters; even the names of some of them, like Prigg and Ferret, are cant terms.4 It is worth noting that in this play the members of the court invade the beggars’ society, pretending to be rogues during most of the action, which is rather unusual if compared with similar representations of the London

underworld. As such, “for a time, at least, beggars and aristocrats can hardly be distinguished” (Blank 1996, 60). However, cant is only used by genuine beggars who, in spite of their peaceful and merry nature, spend their lives in performing dishonest activities such as cheating, begging and pickpocketing. The beggars’ speech is frequently employed in roguish rituals and for conversation, though its most crucial and distinctive function is, as argued by Coleman (2004, 43), that of arousing compassion when talking to outsiders. Rogues are aware of the moving effect that cant language has in the play’s fictional society, and consciously employ it to their advantage when begging:

CLAUSE. And keep afoot the humble and the common phrase of begging, lest men discover us.

HIG. Yes, and cry sometimes to move compassion. (Beaumont and Fletcher 1778, 413) In addition, cant is used to maintain the secrecy of the rogues’ affairs and the exclusivity of their community. As a consequence, it creates the beggars’ in-group in the play: a social group with its own lifestyle and language to which its members feel emotionally attached. As Paula Blank (1996, 60–61) explains, in this play the vagabonds’ society is a reflection of the court, and thus, its language, cant, is understood as an elite speech. It acts as a marker of status within the in-group since it is described as the “learned language” (Beaumont and Fletcher 1778, 413), the language of the wise and prestigious, seen from the beggars’ perspective. The canting tongue determines the membership of the group and shapes the identities of those belonging to it. However, outsiders are not always excluded by means of the use of language since the beggars very often translate their canting words for them. The passage in which the rogue Higgen translates into cant language the words of Clause, an impostor pretending to be a beggar, may serve to exemplify this:

CLAUSE. That we must have, my learned orator, it is our will, and every man to keep in his own path and circuit.

HIG. Do you hear? You must hereafter maund on your own pads he says.

CLAUSE. And what they get there, is their own, besides, to give good words. Sederi

HIG. Do you mark? To cut been whids; that is the second law. (Beaumont and Fletcher 1778, 412–13) Moreover, probably due to their unlawful but non-threatening condition, the beggars and their language are not usually pejoratively perceived by in-group outsiders, although their society is often regarded as vulgar, unruly and lazy. This is clear in the passage when Goswin, a rich merchant, gets surprised when he is told that the rogues’ community has its own social organization:

GOS. ‘Troth thou mak’st me wonder; have you a King and Common-wealth among you?

CLAUSE. We have, and there are States are govern’d worse.

GOS. Ambition among Beggars? (Beaumont and Fletcher 1778, 407) The criminal society presented by Shadwell in The Squire of Alsatia is very similar to that displayed by Beaumont and Fletcher in some respects. Cant is again used by the rogues and lawbreakers who, although more violently, also rely on theft and trickery to earn their living. Cant has a prominent role in the play since, by means of its employment, the criminals create an in-group and define themselves in terms of the community. It is the tool that in-group members use to claim their membership of their particular society and shape their identities, expressing their bonds and loyalty to the group through language, which is presented as a vehicle for social ascendancy within the group. This can be observed in the social hierarchy of the criminals’ in-group, in which the character of Cheatly, the most powerful rogue in the play, is presented as the linguistic authority, the one who possesses the widest knowledge of cant and teaches it to the other, less powerful criminals:

CHEAT. My lusty Rustick, learn and be instructed. Cole is in the language of the Witty, Money. The Ready, the Rhino; thou shalt be Rhinocerical, my Lad, thou shalt. (Shadwell 1668, 2–3) This way, he positions himself as the head of the society of “the witty,” as he calls it, the wisest figure of the in-group. Unlike The Beggars’ Bush, and except for the cases in which Shadwell’s criminals have social or economic interests and avoid cant or explain how to use it, they tend to stress the exclusivity of their group and mark themselves off from the rest of society through their language. Thus, the rogues increase the use of canting terms when talking to outsiders, and mock their inability to understand cant in order to exclude them, becoming, as a result, a closed in-group. Finally, by means of the derogatory reactions of the non-roguish characters of the play to cant,5 Shadwell depicts this variety in a very negative and contemptuous manner and advocates for the adoption of the language “spoken by the superior sort” (Blank 1996, 39): standard, London English, showing that cant was only well-regarded within the community in which it was used, that is, it had not public but covert prestige. The mostly threatening and negative image of the canting society and language depicted in these two plays is not the only testimony that accounts for the pejorative perception of seventeenth-century cant language; contemporary metalinguistic judgements also describe this register in derogatory terms. The prefatory note to the canting glossary added to the 1778 edition of The Beggars’ Bush reads: We shall proceed to the explanation of the Cant Terms made use of in this excellent Comedy, Beggars’ Bush; not assuming to ourselves any very great merit from the depth of our researchers in the gully- hole of literature, and our proficiency in this most vulgar part of the vulgar tongue. (Beaumont and Fletcher 1778, 484) As these lines show, cant was perceived as a very undesirable, vulgar language, and regarded as the worst of all the “vulgar tongue[s].” Similarly, a contemptuous reference to the canting tongue is made at the end of the epilogue to The Squire of Alsatia, this time by alluding to its dishonourable speakers: The Cant he hopes will not be long unknown, ‘tis almost grown the language of the Town. For Fops, who feel a wretched want of Wit. (Shadwell 1668, 72. My emphasis) Thus, the negative depiction of cant language articulated in The Beggars’ Bush and The Squire of Alsatia is reinforced by contemporary accounts in literary works and in the short glossaries compiled throughout the century that confirm the generalized social rejection of this variety.

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4.2. Quantitative analysis Beaumont and Fletcher’s The Beggars’ Bush stands out for its profuse employment of a canting lexis. Up to sixty-three cant terms and expressions are documented in the play, which can be classified into twelve semantic fields: insults, appellations for beggars, food and drink, money, women and sex, trickery and theft, clothing, body parts, names of places, violence, animals and others (see Appendix 1). The first six groups constitute the largest semantic fields, which give us relevant information about the interests and activities of contemporary rogues. It is worth noting that, although the notion of violence is often closely related to roguish characters, the play only includes two terms to refer to it: whip ‘to pierce with a sword-thrust; to run through’ and trine ‘to hang’ (LEME, The Canting Academy). This exemplifies the peaceful nature of Beaumont and Fletcher’s rogues, who are not interested in the use of violence to undertake their deceitful trade, and would rather use their wit than their sword. The Squire of Alsatia is a pivotal text for later studies on canting lexicography due to the important number of cant words that it includes, and the fact that it provides the first documentation for many of them, or their first recorded use in English. I have counted sixty-two different cant terms which comprise words denoting pieces of clothing, food and drink (or the state of being drunk), insults, prostitutes, money, running away, trickery, and violence (see Appendix 2). As with the terms used by Beaumont and Fletcher, the most used and repeated words are those that denote insults, trickery, food and drink, prostitutes and, most of all, money. However, unlike the peaceful beggars of The Beggars’ Bush, Shadwell’s rogues make use of an important amount of violent vocabulary during their criminal activities—e.g., lugg out ‘to pull, give a pull to, to pull by (the ear, hair, etc.); to tease, worry, bait’, sock ‘a blow; a beating’, whip ‘to pierce with a sword-thrust; to run through’, among others—, which suggests that violence also played a very important role in the seventeenth-century underworld society and was inherent to their language. The data obtained from a careful study of the canting lexis used in these two plays point to a common set of semantic fields around which the rogues’ sociolect was constructed. In fact, Table 1 shows that the largest number and variety of words are related to the same notions and interests, with the following semantic fields being the most salient: money, insults, women and sex, trickery and theft, food and drink, and violence. Data have been organized with regards to the lexical types, as well as the frequency of appearance of the terms (tokens) related to each semantic field: Semantic field Types Examples Tokens Percentage Money 15 rhino ‘money’, hog ‘a 73 27.3 shilling’ (73/267) Insults 12 prigg ‘a thief’, bully ‘the 57 21.3 ‘gallant’ or ‘protector of a (57/267) prostitute’ Women and sex 11 peculiar ‘a man’s wife or 50 18.7 mistress’, buttock ‘a (50/267) common strumpet’ Trickery and 15 mill ‘to beat, strike, thrash; 35 13.1 Theft to fight, overcome’, maund (35/267) ‘to beg; to ask’ Food and drink 10 hum ‘a kind of liquor; 34 12.7 strong or double ale’, prog (34/267) ‘food’ Violence 6 sock ‘a blow; a beating’, 18 6.7 porker ‘a sword’ (18/267) Total 69 267 99.8 (267/267) Table 1. Most relevant semantic fields. Clearly, the canting vocabulary found in The Beggar’s Bush and The Squire of Alsatia is constructed around well-defined semantic frames among which the lexical repertoire referring to money notably outnumbers the other fields in terms of number and variety of terms, as well as frequency, followed by the terminology for insults, women and sex, which is also relatively frequent in the sample. Both plays helped, therefore, to circulate the idea that the main subjects to which the canting language referred were money, insults, women, theft, etc. and, consequently, that the rogues’ chief interests included activities related to these fields. But, were there any particular words that these plays put forth more frequently as representative or characteristic of this underworld sociolect? Sederi

The comparative analysis of the canting lexis used in each of the plays brings to light that there are some specific terms which are consistently used and repeated in them; Table 2 (Schintu 2018, 106) includes the seven canting words documented in both plays and reports their incidence. Cant term6 Tokens Percentage Prigg ‘A cheat’ 16 24.6 (16/65) Ready ‘Money in possession’ 16 24.6 (16/65) Whip ‘To pierce with a sword-thrust; 12 18.5 (12/65) to run through’ Bowze ‘Drink, or to drink’ 9 13.8 (9/65) Nab ‘A hat, cap, or head; also a 6 9.2 (6/65) coxcomb’ Bully ‘A supposed husband to a 3 4.6 (3/65) bawd, or whore; also a huffing fellow’ Rag ‘A farthing’ 3 4.6 (3/65) Total 65 99.9 (65/65) Table 2: Most recurrent canting terms. As Table 2 shows, prigg and ready are quite frequent in the plays under analysis. It is worth noting that prigg is only found in The Squire of Alsatia with the meaning “a cheat”; Beaumont and Fletcher used it as the name for a rogue in their play. The fact that it was employed to identify a fictional criminal suggests that the word had some roguish sociocultural connotations which may have been salient enough so that the audience automatically associated the name of the character with a dishonest lifestyle. The terms whip and bowze also show a relatively high frequency. Interestingly, the word bowze is used with two different spellings—bowze and bouse—, in the compound nouns bouzing-ken and benbouse,7 and in the form of an

adjective: bowsy, which the OED defines as “showing the effects of boozing or intoxication; influenced or affected by much drinking.” Nab, bully and rag are less recurrent in the dialogues, but still they are present in both plays, which indicates that they may have been commonly understood as cant terms too. Remarkably, all these terms, with the exception of nab, belong to some of the main semantic fields outlined in Table 1: ready and rag refer to money, prigg and bully are insults, whip is a violent action, and bowze is related to drinking. The repeated dramatic use of these terms suggests that there was some continuity in their representation throughout the 1600s. In fact, it might be assumed that the recurrent use and circulation of this set of words through dramatic performance possibly contributed to their identification as characteristically cant words by the rest of the population, thereby creating a framework for the literary articulation of the London underworld and its form of speech. It is worth noting that the data obtained are in line with contemporary non-literary accounts of cant language such as the renowned New Dictionary of the Terms Ancient and Modern of the Canting Crew, which glosses five of the six terms listed in Table 2: ready, prigg, bouze, nab, bully and rag; this undoubtedly acknowledges their canting status. The other word, whip, is likewise found in B.E.’s dictionary, yet as part of the expression Whip thee through the lungs, which is defined as ‘run through the body with a sword’. Bouze and nab are also documented in Harman’s groundbreaking A Caveat or Warening for Commen Cursetors, and Head’s Canting Academy includes the compound bouzing-ken. These lexicographic testimonies provide further support for the linguistic image and treatment that cant received in The Beggars’ Bush and The Squire of Alsatia, and at the same time emphasize their role as conduits via which ideas about this variety were constructed, circulated, received and assimilated by contemporary outsiders who were not native users of cant. Modern lexicographic evidence provided by the OED points to the stability of this canting lexical repertoire across centuries. The dictionary records all the terms I have found in these two plays and highlights that four of them are markedly cant: prigg, nab, rag, whip. This reinforces the linguistic portrait that seventeenth-century roguish plays made of the underworld language and confirms their reliability as sources of information about it. Sederi

5. Concluding remarks This study has been concerned with the analysis of literary renditions of cant language by means of the framework of enregisterment. The survey of the language employed in the plays selected has allowed the identification of a common set of linguistic and sociocultural features which were associated with this underworld variety in literature. In view of the qualitative and quantitative analysis of the data, it seems clear that the plays analyzed show enregisterment of the canting tongue and the values it entailed. The steady representation of a particular set of lexical items— prigg, ready, whip, bowze, nab, bully, rag—organized around well- defined semantic fields such as money, insults, trickery, etc., contributed to the progressive identification of this lexical repertoire as characteristic of cant language in the public imagination, leading to the creation of fixed linguistic ideas that became differentiable and salient for the non-canting audience, and that were gradually spread by means of dramatic performance. The fact that all these forms appear documented in other earlier and/or later non-literary works confirms their cant status and strengthens the linguistic portrait made in the plays, which prove to be a faithful reflection of the linguistic setting of the period. In addition, the negative views of criminal characters and communities reflected in the plays and in contemporary metalinguistic comments greatly contributed to the creation of links between cant language and certain sociocultural notions. This way, the social rejection of cant speakers represented in these textual artefacts was transferred to their language, and, as a result, negative stereotypes were indexed to this variety: cant as the menacing language used by undesirable speakers that embodied certain features (unlawfulness, immorality, roguery, etc.) to undertake their unlawful trade and deceive the rest of the society. Taken together, these findings confirm the crucial role of seventeenth-century dramatic representations of cant language in the process of enregisterment of this underworld variety since their existence proves the presence of third-order indexical links through which linguistic and sociocultural ideas about cant were indexed to this form of expression. As a result, these metapragmatic practices gave way to the articulation of seventeenth-century cant language, and allowed the circulation and the social spread not only of the variety but also of the sociocultural values embedded in it, resulting in a stable, differentiable and sustained register.

6. Addenda Appendix 1: Cant terms in The Beggars’ Bush according to their semantic distribution.8

Semantic field Cant terms

Insults Bully, cranke, ferret, maggot, prigg, ruffin

Appellations for Abram-man, clapperdudgeon, clowes, cove, dommerer, frater, beggars harmanbeck, jarkman, maunders, patrico

Food and drink Benbouse, bouze, bouzing ken, hum, strommel

Money Lour, pig, rags, ready

Women and sex Dell, doxy, mort, twang

Trickery and Filch, lamb, maund, mill, niggled, prig the prancers, strike, theft strike all the cheats

Clothing Belly-cheats, commission, lag of duds, nab-cheats

Body parts Fambles, nab

Names of places Ken, pad, ruffmans

Violence Trine, whip

Animals Cackling-cheats, grunting-cheats, margery-praters, rogers, tibs of the buttery

Others Clapper, cut been whids, filches, fumbumbis, gage, prop, queere-cuffin, salmon, slates, stall

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Appendix 2: Cant terms in The Squire of Alsatia according to their semantic distribution

Semantic field Cant terms

Clothing Famble, joseph, rigging, nab, rumm nab, scout, tattler

Food and drink Bowsy, bumper, clear, facer, prog (or the state of being drunk)

Insults Bubble, bully, caravan, cod, mobile, prig, prigster, put

Prostitutes Blowing, buttock, convenient, natural, peculiar, pure, tackle

Money Cole, darby, decus, equip, george, hog, meggs, rag, ready, rhino, rhinocerical, sice, smelts

Running away Rubb, scamper, scoure

Trickery and Banter, cut a Sham, doctor, sealer, sharper, tatmonger, tatt theft

Violence Lugg out, porker, sock, tilter, whip

Others A Bolter of White-Fryers, Alsatia, crump, ogling, sharp, smoaky, trout

References Primary sources Beaumont, Francis, and John Fletcher. (ca. 1622) 1778. The Beggars’ Bush. In The Dramatick Works of Beaumont and Fletcher. Volume II. London: T. Sherlock. Beaumont, Francis, and John Fletcher. (1619) 2004. A King and No King. Edited by Lee Bliss. Manchester: Manchester University Press. B. E. 1699. A new dictionary of the terms ancient and [H]modern of the canting crew in its several tribes of Gypsies, beggars, thieves, cheats, &c. London: Printed for W. Hawes and W. Davis. Harman, Thomas . 1567. A caueat for commen cursetors vvlgarely called uagabones. London: Wylliam Gryffith.

Head, Richard. 1673. The canting academy […]: to which is added a compleat canting-dictionary. London: Printed by F. Leach for Mat. Drew. Lancashire, Ian, ed. 2006. Lexicons of Early Modern English. U. Toronto Press. Accessed September 2015. http://leme.library.utoronto.ca/ Profitt, Michael et al., eds. 2000. Oxford English Dictionary Online. Oxford University Press. Accessed September 2015. http://www.oed.com/ Shadwell, Thomas. 1688. The Squire of Alsatia. London: Printed by James Knapton. Early English Books Online: English Prose Drama Full-Text Database. Secondary sources Agha, Asif. 2003. “The Social Life of Cultural Value.” Language & Communication 23: 231–73. Beal, Joan C., and Paul Cooper. 2015. “The Enregisterment of Northern English.” In Researching Northern English, edited by R. Hickey, 25–50. Amsterdam, Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Blank, Paula. 1996. Broken English. Dialects and the Politics of Language in Renaissance Writings. London: Routledge. Clark, Urszula. 2013. “’Er’s from off: The Indexicalization and Enregisterment of Black Country Dialect.” American Speech 88 (4): 441–66. Coleman, Julie. 2004. A History of Cant and Slang Dictionaries. Volume I: 1567– 1784. New York: Oxford University Press. Cooper, Paul. 2013. “Enregisterment in Historical Contexts: A Framework.” PhD dissertation, University of Sheffield. Gotti, Maurizio. 1999. The Language of Thieves and Vagabonds: 17th and 18th Century Canting Lexicography in England. Tübingen: Niemeyer. Hand Browne, William. 1913. “Thomas Shadwell.” The Sewanee Review 21 (3): 257–76. Johnstone, Barbara. 2009. “Pittsburghese Shirts: Commodification and the Enregisterment of an Urban Dialect.” American Speech 84 (2): 157–75. Kinney, Arthur F. 1990. Rogues, Vagabonds, & Sturdy Beggars: A New Gallery of Tudor and Early Stuart Rogue Literature. Massachusetts: University of Massachusetts Press. Mikalachki, Jodi. 1994. “Gender, Cant, and Cross-talking in "The Roaring Girl.” Renaissance Drama 25: 119–43. Ruano García, Francisco Javier. 2012. “On the Enregisterment of the Northern Dialect in Early Modern English: An Evaluation across Literary Text Types.” In At a Time of Crisis: English and American Studies in Spain, edited by S. Martín, M. Moyer, E. Pladevall and S. Tubau, 376–83. Barcelona: AEDEAN. Sederi

Schintu, Paula. 2016. “’The Mobile Shall Worship Thee’: Cant Language in Thomas Shadwell’s The Squire of Alsatia (1688).” SEDERI (26): 175–93. Schintu, Paula. 2018. “Portraying the Underworld: The Enregisterment of 17th and 18th-century Cant.” In Persistence and Resistance in English Studies: New Research, edited by S. Martín, D. Owen and E. Pladevall, 98–108. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing.

How to cite this note: Schintu, Paula. ““The gully-hole of literature”: On the enregisterment of cant language in seventeenth-century England.” SEDERI 28 (2018): 99–117. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Dpto. Filología Inglesa – C/Placentinos, 18 – 37008 Salamanca – Spain Submission: 5/4/2017 Acceptance: 25/10/2017

First encounters of Europeans and Africans with Native Americans in Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko: White woman, black prince and noble savages Violetta Trofimova Independent scholar, St. Petersburg, Russia

ABSTRACT A curious episode of the first encounter with Native Americans out of Aphra Behn’s novel Oroonoko, or the History of the Royal Slave (1688) is reconsidered, using various types of interpretation, such as the structural, philosophical and historical. Special attention is paid to the position and configuration of the episode: all the participants are others to each other. This episode may be interpreted as a model of the first contact between different folks, as well as a story of the origins of religion. In the context of seventeenth-century colonial policy it may be seen as a non-violent way of colonizing America. KEYWORDS: Aphra Behn; Oroonoko; colonial policy; Edward Winslow; Indians.

Primeros encuentros de europeos y Primeiros encontros de europeus e africanos con nativos americanos en africanos com nativos americanos em Oroonoko, de Aphra Behn: Oroonoko, de Aphra Behn: la mujer blanca, el príncipe negro y los a mulher branca, o príncipe negro e os nobles salvajes nobres selvagens RESUMEN: Esta nota reconsidera un curioso RESUMO: Reconsidera-se aqui um episódio episodio del primer encuentro con nativos curioso sobre o primeiro encontro com americanos en la novela de Aphra Behn nativos americanos no romance de Aphra Oroonoko, or the History of the Royal Slave Behn, Oroonoko, or the History of the Royal (1688), usando varios aspectos de Slave (1688), usando-se várias formas de interpretación estructurales, filosóficos e interpretação, nomeadamente estruturais, históricos. Presta especial atención a la filosóficas e históricas. Presta-se especial posición y configuración del episodio: atenção à posição e configuração do episó- todos los participantes son el otro para los dio: todos os participantes são o outro para demás. Este episodio puede interpretarse todos os outros. Este episódio pode ser como un modelo del primer contacto entre interpretado como um modelo do primeiro diferentes pueblos, así como una historia contacto entre povos, assim como uma de los orígenes de la religión. En el história sobre as origens da religião. No contexto de la política colonial del s. XVII contexto da política colonial do século se ve como una manera no violenta de dezassete, é visto como uma maneira não colonizar América. violenta de colonizar a América. PALABRAS CLAVE: Aphra Behn; Oroonoko; PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Aphra Behn; Oroonoko; política colonial; Edward Winslow; política colonial; Edward Winslow; indios.* índios.**

Sederi In this paper I am going to reconsider different aspects of a very curious episode in Aphra Behn’s most famous novel Oroonoko, or the History of the Royal Slave (1688), that is, her visit to the Indian town in Surinam, its inhabitants having never seen white people before. Although this genre was emergent in Behn’s times, and Oroonoko does not fit all characteristics generally ascribed to a novel, I consider it more applicable to Behn’s work than the novella or any other genre discussed, for example, in Approaches to Teaching Behn’s Oroonoko (Richards 2014). From a structural perspective, much attention is paid to the position of the episode inside the novel and the role of this “digression”—it is placed in the middle of the second part dedicated to Oroonoko’s life in Surinam, and it is an attempt to overcome “feud” and “fear” before the natives (Behn 1997, 47, 51). The next important point here is the configuration of the meeting itself: we see here not only a white woman traveller and South American Indians, but also a noble Black slave, the hero of the novel. All of them are others to each other, and Aphra Behn and Oroonoko are marginal people in their society: she acts as a powerless woman (although she pretends to a considerable power in the colony), and he is a black man, an ex-prince and a slave deprived of rights and freedom. The author shows that Indians are ready to accept these marginals, and such marginals are much better at establishing good relationships with local people than ordinary colonists, white men with weapons and money. The analysis of the relationships between the others in the episode is formal in method. The main device to be analyzed by Russian Formalists was defamiliarization (ostranenie) (Trofimova 2015, 82). Defamiliarization aimed at presenting ordinary things in an unusual form or perspective. Known long before Shklovsky and other Russian Formalists, it was widely used by Aphra Behn in her most famous novel. It is defamiliarization that brings in the social criticism which is so important in Behn’s novel. In eighteenth- century English literature this device was used by Jonathan Swift in Gulliver’s Travels (Trofimova 2015, 83–84). In a more general and even philosophical regard, this episode can be read as a model of the first contact between different folks, as well as a story of the origins of religion. From a historical point of view this episode is an example of a non-violent way of colonizing the New World in seventeenth-century English colonial policy. A Sederi comparison with earlier English texts on the same subject will shed new light on Behn’s novel. Although I am not going to compare the episode of the first encounter with Native Americans in Behn’s Oroonoko with similar texts from non-English literatures, the general methodological framework for this paper is that of Comparative Literature. In particular, I will follow the principles of Comparative Literature which focus on literature within the context of culture and the insistence on inclusion (Tötösy de Zepetnek 1998: 17). The comparative method was used in Approaches to Teaching Behn’s Oroonoko by Vincent Carretta, who analyzed the concepts of race, identity, status, slavery and abolition using both Oroonoko and Interesting Narrative by Equiano (Richards 2014, 167–72). As for the concept of inclusion, it is revealed, on the one hand, in the combination of textual analysis based on formalism and the comparative approach, and on the other hand, in using the earlier text covering the same issues as Behn’s Oroonoko. I have not been able to find proof that Behn was acquainted with the text I use for my comparison, although her knowledge of it is quite plausible from a chronological perspective. Turning back to the structural analysis and formal approach, we can notice that the episode of the first encounter with Native Americans contains a number of inconsistencies, if we read it against the entire text of the novel. Behn talks about “mortal Fears, about some Disputes the English had with the Indians” (1997, 47), while at the very beginning of the novel she claimed the Englishmen live with Indians “in perfect Amity […] caress ‘em with all the brotherly and friendly Affection in the World,” “with these People, as I said, we live in Perfect Tranquillity, and good Understanding” (Behn 1997, 8, 10). Nevertheless, just before Behn’s visit to an Indian town the colonists and the natives are on the brink of the war. At the closure of the episode Behn mentions “Indian slaves” (1997, 51), while at the beginning of the novel she claims “we find it absolutely necessary to caress ‘em as Friends, and not to treat ‘em as Slaves” (Behn 1997, 11). We may suppose she used the word “slave” here in the meaning servant, but she does not reveal what events broke the tranquility between the English colonists and the Indians. However, we may suppose cheating and lies practiced by White people damaged their relationships with the Natives.

The position of this episode in the novel is very significant: it is placed after the colonists’ suspicions of Oroonoko, and just before his decision to organize a slave rebellion and his famous “harangue” on the “miseries and ignominies” of slavery (Behn 1997, 52). It is introduced in contrast to a laconic description of the atrocities of the Indians towards white colonists that the narrator was told about (she claims she was not an eyewitness of those terrible events): “They cut in pieces all they cou’d take, getting into Houses, and hanging up the Mother, and all her Children about her; and cut a Footman, I left behind me, all in Joynts, and nail’d him to Trees” (Behn, 1997, 47). The temporary balance in the relationships between English colonists and South American Indians is broken after the arrival of the Dutch. The narrator accuses the Dutch colonists of maltreatment of the natives: “The Dutch, who us’d ‘em not so civilly, as the English” (1997, 47). If we take into consideration Behn’s description of English Colonial Council— “such notorious Villains as Newgate never transported” (1997, 59) — we may only wonder, what Dutch colonists were like. Nevertheless, seventeenth-century readers of Oroonoko were not at all surprised by Dutch cruelty at all. There were plenty of prejudices against the Dutch, therefore Behn’s description of the Dutch colonists’ attitude to the natives fits excellently within a seventeenth-century paradigm. On the other hand, as I am going to prove, Aphra Behn followed an English concept of peaceful colonization and friendship with the natives revealed in English texts from the beginning of the seventeenth century. Behn and her company undertake this journey without any clear purpose. The narrator mentions eighteen people, who dared to go by barge along the river to an unknown “Indian Town” (Behn, 1997, 47). It is left unclear how many of them disembarked. Behn mentions “herself,” her brother and her maid, as well as Oroonoko – Caesar, and a fisherman “that liv’d at the Mouth of the River” (1997, 48). Nevertheless, we may suppose there were more visitors, and those most probably were not white people: We, who resolv’d to surprize ‘em [i.e. Indians], by making ‘em see something they never had seen, (that is, White People) resolv’d only my self, my Brother, and Woman shou’d go; so Caesar, the Fisherman, and the rest […] let us pass on towards the Town. (Behn, 1997, 48) Sederi One of “the rest” might have been Oroonoko’s wife Imoinda- Clemene, “a sharer in all [their] adventures,” but her presence in this episode is not articulated (Behn 1997, 51). The configuration of their company is peculiar. Their leaders are Behn, a woman claiming an influence in the colony, being the daughter of a “Lieutenant-General of Six and Thirty Islands, besides the Continent of Surinam” (Behn 1997, 43), but totally incapable of helping her friend Oroonoko, and Oroonoko-Caesar, a man of noble birth, but de facto a slave, a person reduced to a commodity. In the text of the novel Behn strives to dissociate herself from bad English colonists and even Christians. There is also her brother, who wears a suit with “abundance of Green Ribon” (Behn 1997, 48). As Mary-Ann O’Donnell has pointed out, these “green ribbons” reveal his sympathy to the Levelers, or even, anachronistically, his belonging to a Green Ribbon club in the 1680’s (2012). Thus, he is also a problematic figure. The Fisherman who has lost his European appearance and looks like “a perfect Indian in Colour” is also a marginal (Behn 1997, 48). Moreover, all these people—a royalist Aphra Behn, her republican brother, their Black slave-friend, and Indian-like Fisherman—are others to each other. Behn develops the device of defamiliarization almost to absurdity. What her characters share is the interest in the environment and the people different from them. They are able to conduct a dialogue with South American Indians thanks to their willingness to understand others. Although they took the Fisherman to enable oral communication with the Indians, Behn, her maid and her brother start their interaction with them by gazing and touching. The narrator introduces the first meeting of the Indians and the White people in a picturesque way. The three Europeans enter the town with “Houses, or Huts” standing on the bank of the river (Behn 1997, 48). Some Indians are dancing, while others are busy carrying water from the river. The Indians are amazed at seeing unknown creatures. Behn and her company first perceive their cry as addressed to the warriors: “We thought it had been for those that should Kill us” (Behn 1997, 48). Fortunately, they are mistaken. The contrast between the natives and the white visitors is strengthened by their outward appearance: “They were all naked, and we were Dressed” (Behn 1997, 48). Moreover, it is the white people who establish the communication; the Indians “stand still,” stupefied with amazement

(Behn 1997, 48). Overcoming fear, Behn, her brother and her woman offer them their hands, and this gesture is accepted by the Indians. The author makes a detailed description of the stages of acquaintanceship. First the Indians go around the visitors and express surprise at their strange appearance. Then they start to touch the women and examine their petticoats. At this point Oroonoko and the rest come to them, and an obvious mediator is introduced, that is, the Fisherman, who knows their language and who is known to them. For the Indians he is a friend, “Tiguamy,” while the visitors are “those things,” and it is still unclear to the natives whether these White people are reasonable creatures or not (Behn 1997, 49). Aphra Behn successfully shifts the perspective and introduces the point of view of the Indians. The Fisherman assures them these “things” are reasonable (Behn 1997, 49). Closer to the end of the episode Behn and her company become the Indians’s friends: the War Captains cry “Amora Tigame” to them, that is, greet them in the same way as their countrymen greeted the Fisherman (Behn 1997, 50). Towards the end of the episode Behn replaces the figure of the Fisherman with the hero of the novel, Oroonoko, who becomes a mediator between white colonists and Native American Indians. It is Caesar who expresses a wish to meet War captains, and it is he who asks them about their wounds and scars. Oroonoko has to communicate with the Indian warriors with the help of the interpreter (that is, the Fisherman), but the ground of the dialogue is not a common language. Oroonoko does not know the language of the Indians, but he shares common principles of honor with them. It is no accident he becomes their friend. Oroonoko proves to be a more important mediator than the Fisherman, as he manages to establish “so good an understanding between the Indians and the English, that there were no more Fears, or Heart-burnings during our stay; but we had a perfect, open, and free Trade with ‘em” (Behn 1997, 50). His ability to understand their concept of honor and valor makes him indispensable in the dialogue between white colonists and the natives. Native American Indians express their hospitality, inviting the guests to share a meal with them, and then offering them “Drink of the best Sort” (Behn 1997, 50). Food and drink are very important in communication, something Behn understood very well. Food sharing is neutral in terms of gender, while drinking is associated Sederi with masculinity—War Captains offer drinks to the visitors. Another important form of communication is music, and Behn with her brother organize a small concert. They play flutes—the flute was a popular musical instrument in seventeenth-century England, and, of course, it was highly unusual for the Indians to hear one played. Finally, the narrator mentions flirtation as another component of communication: Behn’s brother kisses Indian Peeie’s wife, and the husband kisses Behn. If we place Oroonoko in the context of late-seventeenth century European culture, we will see that on a philosophical level Behn uses this episode to introduce her own model of the origins of religion. It is acknowledged that she translated The History of the Oracles by Fontenelle simultaneously with work upon Oroonoko, and both books came out in 1688. Although the first English translation of The History of the Oracles was published anonymously, the “Dedicatory” was signed A.B., so, bearing in mind Behn translated Fontenelle’s Entretiens sur la Pluralité des Mondes as A Discovery of New Worlds in the same year, her authorship is unquestionable. Music and tricks perceived as miracles are the basics for religion. The Indians are ignorant and superstitious, they are eager to believe in any fiction, if it looks neat and incomprehensible. For example, they treat Behn’s kinsman as a prophet, because he performed a trick with a burning- glass. Their own prophet, “a Youth of about Sixteen Years old,” is extremely handsome, and he impresses people by making them believe in his supernatural abilities (Behn 1997, 49). We see that Aphra Behn creates an episode that describes first contact of different folks in general. On the other hand, her digression had a more practical meaning in the context of English colonial politics. Behn’s portrayal of Native American Indians bears striking similarities with a much earlier English text on the subject, Edward Winslow’s Letter sent from New England to a friend in these parts, setting forth a briefe and true Declaration of the worth of that Plantation; as also certaine useful Directions for such as intend a Voyage into those Parts (1621). It was first published as part of a book entitled Relation or Iournall of the beginning and proceedings of the English Plantation setled at Plimoth in New England, by certaine English Aduenturers both Merchants and others (later it was known as Mourt’s Relation, or Journal of the Plantation at Plymouth). It came out in London in 1622 and was printed for John Bellamie. A comparison of such a text with Behn’s Oroonoko may seem ridiculous, bearing in mind the personality of Edward Winslow, a Separatist, sixth governor of Plymouth colony, and part of a puritan community. Behn was always highly critical of Puritans, and her relationship to this community is still little-known. On the other hand, she could have read a work about the experience of English colonists in America, possibly before she went to Surinam in the 1660’s. Despite her royalist views, Behn held Oliver Cromwell in high esteem and called Harry Martin, the brother of the character of the novel Colonel Martin, “the great Oliverian” (Behn 1997, 45). Her obvious awareness of the Levelers also lends credence to her interest in such works as Winslow’s letter. As the title of Winslow’s letter shows, it served as a kind of an advertisement to those who were planning to come to America and to settle there. Apart from describing the fertility of American soil and abundance of fruit, berries and vegetables there, the author also makes very interesting remarks about the natives: “We have found the Indians very faithful in their Covenant of Peace with us […]. They are a people without any Religion, or knowledge of any God, yet very trustie, quicke of apprehension, ripe witted, just […]” (Winslow 1865, 133, 135). Such a description coincides with what Aphra Behn wrote about South American Indians: they do not have a word for “liar” in their language, “they have a Native Justice, which knows no Fraud, and they understand no Vice, or Cunning” (1997, 10). Winslow also pointed out Indian nakedness: “The men and women go naked, only a skin about their middles” (1865, 135), although he does not make a contrast with English people fully or colorfully dressed. Winslow’s vision of the relationships with the Indians is much more positive and idealistic than Behn’s. While Behn admits the lack of communication between the colonists and the native people: “they love not to go far from home, and we never go to them” (Behn 1997, 49), Winslow claims, “we often go to them, and they often come to us” (Winslow 1865, 133–34). Not only do the Indians invite Englishmen to their houses, but the colonists also receive the natives as their guests: “We entertain them familiarly in our houses, and they as friendly bestowing their Venison on us” (Winslow 1865, 135). Behn’s Indians also “dressed Venison and Buffalo” for the visitors (1997, 49). Sharing food is important for both authors, but in Winslow’s case his text is crucial in mythologizing Thanksgiving celebrations in North America. It is his letter that gives Sederi the earliest description of Thanksgiving involving not only English colonists, but Indians too: Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, so that we might after a special manner rejoice together, after we had gathered the fruits of our labours […] at which time amongst other Recreations, we exercised our Arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and amongst the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted (Winslow 1865, 133). There is no indication in Behn’s text that the common meal the Indians have with the White people is part of any festival, but the mutual curiosity and openness of the hosts and the guests is reminiscent of the idealistic description in Winslow’s letter. Despite their religious differences, Behn shared with Winslow a concept of mild and non-violent colonization of the American continent. The episode of the visit to an Indian town is a utopian model of peaceful relationships and dialogue with the Indians, and this idealistic vision is reinforced by the El Dorado story at the end of this digression. The image of plenty and endless riches is marred by a bitter lamentation about “what his Majesty lost by losing that part of America” (Behn 1997, 51). While Winslow’s letter is a celebration of the success of English colonial policy in the New World, Behn’s Oroonoko bears witness to the failure of this policy in South America. Not only did England lose Surinam to the Low Countries, but English colonists created an unstable and vulnerable society structure leading to conflicts and even war. Behn warned about the possibility of massacres performed by the Indians as well as about slave revolts. Positioning herself as an advocate of the colonization of the New World, she understood the challenges that English colonists would inevitably face during this process. The episode of the first encounter with Native Americans in Surinam bears both historically determined and timeless features. It is a valuable source for a better understanding of English colonial policy in the seventeenth century, but it is also a model for peaceful communication between different people and different folks.

References Behn, Aphra. 1997. Oroonoko: An Authoritative Text. Historical Backgrounds. Criticism. Edited by Joanna Lipking. New York, London: Norton. O’Donnell, Mary Ann. 2012. “Questions and more questions.” Paper presented at the Conference Aphra Behn in her Seventeenth-Century Contexts, Loughborough. Richards, Cyntia, and Mary Ann O’Donnell, eds. 2014. Approaches to Teaching Behn’s Oroonoko. New York: Modern Language Association. Tötösy de Zepetnek, Steven. 1998. Comparative Literature: Theory, Method, Application. Amsterdam, Atlanta: Rodopi. Trofimova, Violetta. 2015. “Russian Formalism and Reading.” In Linguistic and Literary Theories in Reading, edited by Feryal Cubukcu and Leyla Harputlu, 77–85. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Winslow, Edward. 1865. “Letter sent from New England to a friend in these parts, setting forth a briefe and true Declaration of the worth of that Plantation; as also certaine useful Directions for such as intend a Voyage into those Parts.” In Mourt’s Relation or Journal of the Plantation at Plymouth, introduction and notes by H.M. Dexter, 131–42. Boston: John Kimball Wiggin.

How to cite this note: Trofimova, Violetta. “First Encounters of Europeans and Africans with Native Americans in Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko: white woman, black prince and noble savages.” SEDERI 28 (2018): 119–28. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Ul. Pskovskaja, d.13, kv.3 – 190121 St. Petersburg – Russia Submission: 12/02/2018 Acceptance: 29/05/2018

Reviews

William Shakespeare. 2016. The Comedy of Errors. Edited by Kent Cartwright. The Arden Shakespeare. London: Bloomsbury  William Shakespeare. 2017. Cymbeline. Edited by Valerie Wayne. The Arden Shakespeare. London: Bloomsbury

Jesús Tronch Pérez Universitat de València, Spain

In 2015, Bloomsbury, the publisher of the renowned Arden Shakespeare, announced preparations for a fourth sequence of editions while its Third Series, initiated in 1995, was nearing completion with nine plays in the pipeline (including Edward III). Macbeth appeared in 2015, Henry IV Part Two in 2016, and then the two editions under review. As for May 2018, Midsummer Night’s Dream (2017), Edward III (2017), and King John (2018) have been published, so that All Well’s That Ends Well (announced for December 2018) and Measure for Measure will crown the Third Series. As Kent Cartwright states at the beginning of his preface, he assumed the editorship of Shakespeare’s most Plautine comedy after the untimely death of its initial editor, Gareth Roberts.1 Cartwright’s Introduction and notes make readers appreciate the richness, complexity and depth of a comedy that has often been brushed off as a mechanical “imitation” of Plautus’s farcical Menaechmi. After pointing out how Errors anticipates issues, motifs and devices present in later Shakespeare comedies, the first chapter of the

Sederi Introduction, “Error and Identity,” examines how Shakespeare is concerned with the problem of human identity, the balance between inwardness and appearance (14), the possibility of losing and transforming one’s sense of self, and how Errors parodies “as much as affirms […] the idea of oneself-as-another” (22). Cartwright admirably leads readers through this discussion by drawing attention to the way language and imagery flesh out issues and emotional responses. Such a formalist approach, with an incisiveness and pervasiveness uncommon in Arden critical introductions, is also carried out in “The Cultural World” chapter, the largest one, where Cartwright explores the motif of black magic, the marketplace, religion, time, and marriage. He explains how words have the uncanny power to call forth objects or actions (30), how the use of puns generates a “linguistic anarchy” that becomes a metaphor for the play’s action (32), how religious language is politically charged with anti-Catholic overtones while at the same time allowing a Catholic-oriented reading, so that in the end “Errors does not align easily with one confessional position over another” (45). In a new chapter, entitled “Poetic geography, travel, Dark Ephesus,” the play’s geographical setting is revealed to be associated with mercantilism, sorcery and magic through its Pauline reminiscences. The next chapter, “Genre and style,” regales us with a detailed account of the play’s generic shifts (from comedy, to farce, to romance, and even intimations of tragedy), uses of prose and verse (in its various stanzaic forms), and of devices such as repetition- with-variation. Cartwright’s own style captivates us with illustrative images, as in “Errors’s fun comes partly from its different generic hats doffed or donned with a mime’s ease” (58), or, on commenting on Shakespeare’s eclectic resort to sources, “Shakespeare is like a juggler tossing up both footballs and teacups” (74). The “Sources and Influences” chapter shows that there is much more to Errors than Plautus’s Menaechmi: the anti-Catholic satire recalls Jack Juggler’s parody of transubstantiation (91), and many allusions to contemporary London have analogues in contemporary pamphlets. Nonetheless, in Cartwright’s comparison with the Latin comedy, I missed an elaboration of the ideological consequences of Shakespeare’s variations. Although Cartwright posits that the play offers “few staging problems and adapts easily to different imaginative settings” (93), he Sederi devotes a chapter to this theatrical dimension, paying special attention to the staging of the “lock-out” episode in 3.1 (with reference to his article published in 2006). This seems to result from his decision to add three elements in his critical text: the stage direction “[Exeunt with Dromio last]” at the end of 2.2 (complemented by the commentary note “Dromio […] would exit last, or he might linger on stage, visible to the audience”); qualifying Adriana’s entrance as “[above, within the house]” at 3.1.60; and the details for the exit stage direction at the end of 3.1 with Syracusan Dromio leaving the stage “separately.” The dilemma of doubling actors for the sets of twins is also dealt with in this chapter, preceding a section on the early performances, and then the conventional chapter on the play’s “Afterlife.” In the latter, Cartwright provides an enlightening discussion of the frontispiece in Nicholas Rowe’s 1709 edition as realizing the play’s “rich multivalence” (114), since it “holds diverse, potentially conflicting aspects, of the play in balance” (113), a balance that often modern productions do not manage to strike when they stress some dimensions “to the exclusion of others” (114). In his survey of stage productions, Cartwright points out that Errors is the “first Shakespeare play adapted for a musical in the American theatre” (121): The Boys from Syracuse, whose premiere in 1938 alluded to “political events in Nazi Europe” (122). This 132-page introduction is comparatively lengthy, bearing in mind that Errors is not one of the “canonical” plays. Encompassing just 1,753 lines, it is Shakespeare’s shortest play (Hart 1932, 21; Erne 2003, 165). One wonders if avoidance of a longer introduction led to placing the “Date of Composition” section in an appendix (only three previous Arden editions have done so). More usual in the series is to find “Longer Notes” (supplementing the commentary notes at the foot of the page) after the critical text, and the editor’s textual analysis and statement of editorial procedures in appendices. Cartwright instructively explains the problems in lineation and in the positioning of stage directions that editors face because of the practices of the compositors of the First Folio text, the comedy’s only substantive witness. As for the manuscript provenance of the printer’s copy, he aptly brings into the analysis the contributions by William B. Long and Paul Werstine that question the possibility of identifying features that allow editors to distinguish “foul papers” from “promptbooks.” For Cartwright, Errors’s compositors were probably reading “authorial papers that could have served as a playbook for performance” (343). This performance took place “on the stage of a public playhouse” (346), Cartwright concludes by quoting Ichikawa (2007, 81), and this conclusion has been at the basis of his editorial decisions on stage directions (350). In the section on editorial procedures, he does not describe his editing principles with respect to a more or less emendatory treatment of the text, but focuses on explaining his intrusions (duly indicated in the collation notes with “this edn”), namely quotation marks in the dialogue to signal “when a speaker self-consciously repeats the words” of his or her interlocutor, and stage directions added to “mark certain actions, especially the passing of an object—a purse, a key, a chain—[...] or the striking of one character by another” (349). It is surprising that Cartwright does not refer to any use of the electronic resources Early English Books Online-Text Creation Partnership and Lexicons of Early Modern English (as, for instance, Valerie Wayne has done for her edition of Cymbeline; see below). The resulting edited text can be deemed accurate, after comparing samples with Charlton Hinman’s facsimile. Two new emendations in the dialogue comprise Cartwright’s contribution (not a mean feat) to the play’s long editorial history: the conjunction “and” replacing the Folio “or” in “Thou wouldst have changed thy place for a name, and thy name for an ass” (3.1.47), a decision justified in one of the Longer Notes; and the lineation of 4.4.125 as verse, in consonance with his minute attention to meter. Finally, the commentary notes show the concern with performance issues that is customary in Arden Shakespeare, and, in line with Cartwright’s formalist approach, display more attention to meter and rhetoric than in other Arden editions. Cymbeline is, as Michael Dobson and Stanely Wells describe it, “at once one of the most puzzlingly uncertain in tone, and one of the most weirdly affecting, of Shakespeare’s later plays” (2001, 103). Wayne’s superb edition surely makes readers savor these features from the printed page. Her 136-page, richly informative introduction deals with genre, date, historical context (exploring issues of national identity, colonialism and empire), gender and sexuality, sources and intertexts, and afterlife of the play. As in a good number of other Arden 3 editions, discussion of the text and its editorial treatment is left to an appendix. Since the generic heterogeneity of the play is one of its notorious features (often equated with Polonius’s hotchpotch- Sederi like term “tragical-comical-historical-pastoral” in the Folio Hamlet [Bevington, TLN 1446]), it seems justified to position “A play of mixed genres” as the first chapter of the Introduction. Difficult as it is to pin it down to strict categories, Wayne persuades readers that “identifying Cymbeline as a tragical-comical-historical-pastoral dramatic romance may convey its play with generic form better than most” (24). Wayne discusses unexplored ramifications of the calumny plot, especially in the light of Helen Cooper’s monograph on medieval romance (2004). As one of the play’s “chief features,” she highlights its innovative treatment of women within the play’s overall misogynist discourse: Posthumus forgives and accepts his wife Innogen and regards “his own actions as even worse than hers” (13). Wayne concludes this chapter by emphasizing how the play recapitulates many themes and motifs Shakespeare used in his previous productions, which confers an appropriately valedictory character to the last play in the 1623 folio collection. The “Date and Context” section (30–49) is richly detailed, citing historical events, performances and publications in 1610, with which Wayne associates issues, motifs, and topical concerns in the play. An important event is the investiture of Prince Henry as Prince of Wales, which Wayne relates to the play’s interest in the name of Britain as part of King James’s policy of being accepted as “King of Great Britain.” The publication in 1610 of Galilei’s Sideri Nuncius (Starry Messenger or Message), which confirmed the Copernican cosmological system, is possibly alluded to in Cymbeline’s question “Does the world go round?” (5.5.232). Interestingly, in a footnote Wayne discards any relationship (posited by Chambers [1930, 1, 485], Bullough [1975, vol. 8, 12] and Warren [1989, 65]) between Innogen and Lady Arbella Stuart. For Wayne, if such association were possible, the play never would have been performed, especially at court (45). The accumulative evidence of these associations persuade Wayne that Cymbeline was written between March and November 1610 (50), in line with the recent appraisal of the chronology of Shakespeare’s canon by Gary Taylor and Rory Loughnane (2017, 579–81). In “Ancient Britain in Early Modern England,” Wayne analyses how the play registers issues of the debate over James I’s project of unifying the kingdoms of England and Scotland, but “without establishing a strongly partisan position in the controversy,” as in

her view Shakespeare often has it (56). This ambivalence is also brought to light by Wayne in the play’s gesturing toward the cultural prestige of ancient Rome in justifying England’s incipient empire. Its critique portrays both contemporary court culture (in the positive portrayal of Guiderius and Arviragus) and the Italian Renaissance (impersonated in Iachimo) as “degenerate forms of imperial Rome” (66). In the “British identities” chapter, Wayne dissects the mixed affinities the play activates with British, Welsh, English and Scottish identities as well as with Roman, Briton and Celtic heritage (ultimately offered as worthy), and points out how Cymbeline resists easy, one-to-one correlations such Cymbeline-James I, or Guiderius-Prince Henry (80–81). Wayne revisits issues she discussed in her essay “Gendered Text” (2016), such as Innogen’s presumed virginity and the parallelisms between Posthumus and Cloten, and offers a generous examination of homoeroticism and fluidity of gender in Innogen’s male disguise as Fidele and her/his attraction by her unknown brothers Guiderius and Arviragus (91–92) and in Cymbeline’s remark “O what am I?|A mother to the birth of three?” (5.5.367–68) at the reunion and reconciliation/climax of the play (92–94). For Wayne, it is noteworthy that characters promoting discord are those that “dogmatically assert the claims of homogeneous femininity (Iachimo, Posthumus, Cloten) or manipulative femininity (the Queen)” (93), each being punished, reformed, or expelled; and she notes as well that Innogen’s disguises do not empower her (unlike other Shakespearean cross-dressed heroines) and is in the end ideologically associated with what the patriarchy imposes on women: family and husband. In the chapter on “Sources and Intertexts,” Wayne reviews previous scholarship on the various chronicles, romances, plays, and narratives with which Cymbeline can be connected, and pays special attention to possible influences by Cervantes’s tale “The Curious Impertinent” (one of the Cardenio episodes), specifically in relation to references to Innogen as a diamond and to the use of metatextuality. The introduction is capped by a section devoted to the play’s “afterlives” on the stage, in translations, and in adaptations for radio, television, and film. This section, in which Wayne describes the dramatic, cultural, and ideological changes made by the “subsequent lives,” makes clear that Cymbeline is not a forgotten play. Oddly Sederi enough, Wayne mentions translations into Russian, German, Italian, Polish, Greek, Japanese, Chinese, and one twenty-first century Portuguese translation, but no Spanish rendering (!), when the SH·ES·TRA database of Shakespeare translations in Spain until 2000 registers nine, and Ángel-Luis Pujante published one in 2012 (I have not searched for translations in the Americas). Cymbeline has comparatively few textual problems: its only substantive text is that printed in the First Folio, very likely from a transcript made by the professional scribe Ralph Crane, who also copied five other plays in the Folio (among them The Tempest, the first in the collection). I have checked random samples of Wayne’s critical text against Hinman’s facsimile of the First Folio and the results bespeak of an accurate text (barring details such as the modernization of “ought” at 5.4.33, which should be “aught”). Questionable as any critical text inherently is, points of disagreement may be confined to some of her added stage directions (mainly asides), and perhaps to her giving the name of Dorothy to the lady attending on Innogen (who enters at 2.3.76), the name appearing at 2.3.138 (a speech-prefix designation that is first adopted in this edition and that Wayne acknowledges to Martin Butler’s suggestion). Unlike most editions (including Ann Thompson’s for the Norton Shakespeare 3rd edition), Wayne corrects Folio’s Imogen as Innogen (as did the Oxford 1986 and 2016 complete works editions); and keeps Iachimo (instead of modernizing it as Giacomo, as did Thompson and the Oxford editors). For Innogen, Wayne devotes nine pages in the appendix to justify her decision (391–98); for Iachimo, its corresponding commentary note in the List of roles. Those enjoying learned and informative notes to Shakespeare’s plays will be satisfied with Wayne’s copious and judicious commentaries. She does not shrink from providing a long paraphrase when the glossed sentenced is obscure or elliptical (e.g. 1.4.19–23), or from describing about how a scene, a situation, or even a line has been staged (e.g. 1.2.7). If commentary notes usually signal when Shakespeare coined a word, as recorded in the Oxford English Dictionary, the advent of Early English Books Online-Text Creation Partnership allowed scholars to question a number of claims to Shakespeare’s lexical inventiveness in the OED. And since the EEBO- TCP project is still expanding, it is therefore reasonable that Wayne does not include this kind of claim in her commentary notes. The use

of this electronic resource has also been fundamental in Wayne’s decision to keep Folio readings that the editorial tradition had been emending. One instance of these “restorations” is “solicity” (2.3.47), a word which previous editors believed it did not exist (and the OED continues to obviate, as for May 2018) when a search for the term in EEBO-TCP up to 1610 returns 21 hits in 16 records (again, as for May 2018, with the “variant spellings” option activated). (Incidentally, the textual note for “solicity” misplaces the siglum “F2” before the variant “solicits.”) In her analysis of the Folio text in “Appendix 1,” Wayne adds more evidence to secure attribution of the printer’s copy to Ralph Crane (387). She finds compelling Taylor and Jowett’s proposal that Crane made his transcript from a manuscript copied by two different hands (390). She also provides reasons to support the possibility of revision by Shakespeare, a hypothesis which she tentatively connects to the two-hand character of the manuscript that Crane transcribed (401). At a time when Shakespeare’s authorship has been revisited, especially by the New Oxford Shakespeare team of scholars (Taylor and Egan, 2017), it should be pointed out that Wayne summarily declines to open the question of the authorship of the apparently interpolated fourteeners voicing the dream vision in 5.4.30–62. Its Shakespearean attribution has not been questioned by Taylor and Loughnane (2017, 581). The textual appendix is followed by appendices on music and (a singular feature in the Arden Shakespeare series) on casting and doubling. Thirty-seven pages of works cited denote the vast reading and research carried out by Wayne. But perhaps Wayne’s inquiring spirit is best appreciated in the fact that she acknowledges the assistance of nineteen individuals through private communication, among them actors and scholars (such as Richard Proudfoot and Thompson, two of the general editors of the series). Wayne also includes online references by bloggers and composers. To conclude, for their range of critical approaches and concerns and for their illuminating commentary notes that make readers appreciate the plays’ complexities, the editions of Cartwright and Wayne are a pleasure to read, and both live up to the best Arden Shakespeare tradition, which will soon see its Third Series completed. Sederi

References Bevington, David, ed. “Hamlet (Modern, Folio).” Internet Shakespeare Editions. University of Victoria. Accessed May 16, 2018. http://internetshakespeare.uvic.ca/doc/Ham_FM/complete/ Bullough, Geoffrey, ed. 1975. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. Vol. 8. 8 vols. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Butler, Martin, ed. 2005. Cymbeline, by William Shakespeare. The New Cambridge Shakespeare. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cartwright, Kent. 2006. “Staging the ‘Lock-out’ Scene in the Folio Comedy of Errors.” Studies in Bibliography 24: 1–12. Chambers, Edmund K. 1930. William Shakespeare : A Study of Facts and Problems. 2 Vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Cooper, Helen. 2004. The English Romance in Time: Transforming Motifs from Geoffrey of Monmouth to the Death of Shakespeare. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dobson, Michael, and Stanley Wells, eds. 2001. The Oxford Companion to Shakespeare. Oxford: Oxford University Press. EEBO-TCP: Early English Books Online-Text Creation Partnership. Accessed July 13, 2018. https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebogroup/ Erne, Lukas. 2013. Shakespeare as Literary Dramatist. Second edition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hart, Alfred. 1932. “The Number of Lines in Shakespeare’s Plays.” The Review of English Studies OS 8 (29): 19–28. doi:10.1093/res/os-VIII.29.19. Hinman, Charlton, ed. 1968. The First Folio of Shakespeare : Norton Facsimile. New York, London: W W Norton / Hamlyn. Ichikawa, Mariko. 2007. “The Staging of The Comedy of Errors, Act 3, Scene 1.” English Literary Renaissance 15: 81–97. Long, William B. 1985. “Stage Directions: A Misinterpreted Factor in Determining Textual Provenance.” Text 2: 121–37. Oxford English Dictionary Online. 2018. Oxford University Press. Accessed May 16, 2018. http://www.oed.com/ Pujante, Ángel-Luis, trans. 2012. “Cimbelino.” In William Shakespeare: Comedias & tragicomedias, edited by Ángel-Luis Pujante, 1057–1160. Madrid: Espasa Libros, S. L. U. Rowe, Nicholas, ed. 1709. The Works of Mr. William Shakespear. 6 Vols. London: Jacob Tonson.

SH·ES·TRA: Shakespeare en España en traducción. University of Murcia. Accessed May 16, 2018. https://www.um.es/shakespeare/shestra/index.php Taylor, Gary, and Gabriel Egan, eds. 2017. The New Oxford Shakespeare Authorship Companion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Taylor, Gary, and Rory Loughnane. 2017. “The Canon and Chronology of Shakespeare’s Works.” In The New Oxford Shakespeare Authorship Companion, edited by Gary Taylor and Gabriel Egan, 417–602. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Taylor, Gary, John Jowett, Terri Bourus, and Gabriel Egan, eds. 2016. The New Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Thompson, Ann, ed. 2016. “Cymbeline.” In The Norton Shakespeare, third edition, volume 2, 1321–1415. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. Warren, Roger. 1989. Cymbeline. Shakespeare in Performance. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Wayne, Valerie. 2015. “The First Folio’s Arrangement and Its Finale.” Shakespeare Quarterly 66 (4): 389–408. Wayne, Valerie. 2016. “The Gendered Text and Its Labour.” In The Oxford Handbook of Shakespeare and Embodiment, edited by Valerie Traub, 549–68. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wells, Stanley, Gary Taylor, John Jowett, and William Montgomery, eds. 1986. William Shakespeare: The Complete Works. Oxford: Clarendon. Werstine, Paul. 2013. Early Modern Playhouse Manuscripts and the Editing of Shakespeare. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

How to cite this review: Tronch Pérez, Jesús. Review of William Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors, ed. Kent Cartwright (London: Bloomsbury, 2016) and William Shakespeare, Cymbeline, ed. Valerie Wayne (London: Bloomsbury, 2017). SEDERI 28 (2018): 131–40. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Departament de Filologia Anglesa i Alemanya – Facultat de Filologia, Traducció i Comunicació – Avinguda Blasco Ibáñez, 32 – 46010 València, Spain

Alison Findlay and Vassiliki Markidou, eds. 2017. Shakespeare and Greece. London: Bloomsbury Arden Shakespeare

Zenón Luis-Martínez Universidad de Huelva, Spain

Ben Jonson’s pronouncement on Shakespeare’s “small Latine, and lesse Greeke” in the Fist Folio’s dedication hardly envisioned the impact of its quantifiers (Shakespeare 1623, A4v). Baldwin’s homonymous study (1944) confirmed the Jonsonian tag, and later critics like Martindale and Martindale (1990), Miola (1992, 1994) or Enterline (2012) have established from various perspectives the predominance of Latin models in Shakespeare’s transformations of classical culture. Writing against the grain of this tradition, recent critics have exposed the critical neglect of the role of Hellenism in early modern and Shakespearean drama. In the introductory essay to a recent special issue, Pollard and Demetriou claim that Renaissance English encounters with the Greeks—“Shakespeare’s Plutarch, Jonson’s Lucian, Chapman’s Homer, Greene’s Heliodorus and more”—are symptoms of a “transnational […] phenomenon” (2017, 3). 2017 has witnessed the publication of Pollard’s monograph Greek Tragic Women on Shakespearean Stages, and the collection reviewed here, which pertinently continues and expands the scope of Greece in Shakespeare’s imagination. The thesis in Findlay and Markidou’s Shakespeare and Greece is clearly stated: it seeks “to prove that there is more Greek and less Latin in a significant group of Shakespeare’s texts: a group whose generic hybridity […] exemplifies the hybridity of Greece in the early modern imagination” (1). While the comparative quantification of Greek and Latin in Shakespeare’s plays seems more a rhetorical strategy than a significant claim, the numerous insights into the plurality and hybridity of early modern English ideas of classical and post-classical Greece offered by the introduction and eight essays in this volume constitute a remarkable achievement. This large potential for research is made evident in Findlay and Markidou’s “Introduction.” It is unusual in critical collections to find the introductory essay the longest in the volume. This entails Sederi disadvantages, as the compelling research paths outlined by this piece do not always find later materialization in the form of a book chapter, but it also corroborates the book’s ground-breaking quality. With the aim “to illuminate the complex ambiguities of ancient and early modern Greek settings in Shakespeare’s texts” (3), three sections account for the introduction’s complexity and variety. The first, “Shakespeare’s Greek,” reconsiders the levels of Greek literacy and traces the availability of ancient Greek literature, history and philosophy in Latin and vernacular translations in early modern England, as contexts for Shakespeare’s possible acquaintance with the language or with key notions of Greek culture. Conclusions point at school and university contexts, but also at translation as a mode of disseminating classical ideas. The second, “Early Modern Perceptions of Ancient Greece,” investigates notions of Greece’s temporal and geographical remoteness, and discusses the views, mainly derived from North’s translation of Plutarch’s Lives (1579), of a “mighty, imperialistic, yet, dispersed, fragmented and divided territory” (19), an idea in accordance with Shakespeare’s distant and ambivalent portraits of Greek geographies. The third, “Early Modern Perceptions of Greece as Ottoman Other,” regards the historical landmark of the fall of Constantinople in 1453, which put Greece mainly under Ottoman rule, as a controlling trope for representations of the rise and fall of empires and the attributions of ethnic, religious and cultural otherness to a people otherwise perceived as originators of Western civilization. But Findlay and Markidou’s portrait of Greece as a multifaceted and ambiguous mirror to the state of learning, religion and politics in Shakespeare’s England has more chances of success with England than with Shakespeare. The title’s categorical enunciation, Shakespeare and Greece, without the prop of a secondary title, is indicative of the frequency with which present-day scholarship conflates Shakespeare with his own time, and does not do entire justice to the scope of this collection. The eight ensuing essays, considerably shorter than the introduction, are not arranged along the abovementioned three lines. In agreement with their kaleidoscopic idea of Greece, the editors prefer to signal points of convergence between the essays and the book’s areas of interest along the introduction. The first chapter, Kent Cartwright’s “The Comedy of Errors and ‘Farthest Greece,’” undoes any attempt to set Latin and Greek to a contest for Sederi hegemony. In his role as recent Arden editor of Errors, Cartwright revises eight editions, his own included, to find no substantial statement on Greek influence (46), and conceives his essay in reparatory terms. Cartwright fascinatingly traces the play’s Ephesian setting as a “first-century world of the Greek-dominated Mediterranean in the twilight of the Hellenistic era,” evincing struggles between pagan and Christian culture (47). He reconstructs Homeric echoes (i.e., the mention of “Circe’s cup” in Act 5), mythical allusions, or intimations of Hellenistic romance in a suggestive web of reference that “allows the juxtaposing of present and past, stability and instability, commerce exchange and magical transformation, tragedy and comedy” (62). The essay wisely refrains from claiming “more Greek” at the expense of the play’s substantial Latin—perhaps acknowledging the limited textual evidence from which some authors in this collection must extract their capacious arguments. The second chapter, Liz Oakley-Brown’s “A Rhizomatic Review of Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis and Love’s Labour Lost,” embraces Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of the “rhizome” as a decentralizing tool that resists source/text or model/imitation approaches to Shakespeare’s relations with Greek culture. Shakespeare’s “rhizomatic Greek” does not assume direct knowledge of a tradition, but creates networks connecting ancient and vernacular textual productions. A controversial case is Shakespeare’s maintenance of Adonis’s name in its original Greek against his Latinizing of Aphrodite into Venus, which Oakley-Brown reads as “an embodiment of the ‘Grecian turn’ underpinning England’s burgeoning Protestant identity” (80). Chapter 3, Efterpi Mitsi’s “Consuming Greek Heroism in The School of Abuse and Troilus and Cressida,” successfully brings together the volume’s interest in Shakespeare as part of wider early modern textual traditions. Invoking Shakespeare’s well-known use of metaphors of food consumption in Troilus, Mitsi analyses the play’s ironic appropriation of the anti-theatricalists’ praise of Homeric heroism in their attacks on the theatre. In Mitsi’s argument, Shakespeare’s “digest” of the Trojan legend exploits “the ambiguous role of the Homeric literary tradition in late sixteenth-century England” (107). On its part, Chapter 4, Nic Panagopoulos’s “Physis and Nomos in King Lear,” returns, like Oakley-Brown, to the problem of Shakespeare’s Greek sources, in his fine speculation on Lear’s debt to philosophical problems with origins in the fifth-century BC

Athenian sophist school. While accepting the difficulty of determining specific sources for Shakespeare’s plays, Panagopoulos brings forth the importance of Antiphon, Protagoras and the sophists’ methodology of “endlessly practicing antilogies and disputing contrary positions” (132), as well as their conceptualization of the conflict between nature and law for the play’s ascertaining of crucial moral and political debates like legitimacy vs. bastardy, the possibility of teaching moral virtue, or wider questions of justice in relation to tragedy. Chapter 5, John Drakakis’s “Hospitality, Friendship and Republicanism in Timon of Athens,” is the first of three essays addressing Shakespearean representations of Greek geopolitical realities as “displacement[s] of English concerns” (141). Drawing on Thucydides’ comments on democracy, hospitality and modesty in his funeral oration for Pericles, Drakakis draws connections between Timon’s satirical gaze at the destruction of those values by a “corrosive venality” and Middletonian/Jonsonian city comedy (145– 146). Yet, Drakakis argues, Shakespeare’s exploration of its hero’s misanthropy adds a tragic depth that enables a cautionary vision of the urban proto-capitalism of Jacobean London. Chapter 6, Markidou’s “The Politics of Greek Topographies in Pericles,” compellingly interprets the multifarious Greek geographies of Shakespeare’s first romance as a palimpsestic site on which succeeding locations superimpose new meanings on former places: Antioch, Tarsus, Pentapolis, Mytilene and Ephesus successively but not entirely overwrite one another in tracing the character’s ordeal from sexual and political decadence to restored integrity. Chapter 7, Findlay’s “Reshaping Athens in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Two Noble Kinsmen,” deftly explores Shakespeare’s combination of Greek myth, vernacular literature and native folklore as a sign of his fluid treatment of popular and elitist cultural forms. Stressing a more celebratory tone in the Dream than in Two Noble Kinsmen, Findlay imagines Shakespearean spectators’ “rebalancing of culture”’ in their weighing of a native background against “a classical heritage in which Athens was both the fountainhead of civilization and a site of decadence” (211, 210). One may initially object to the pertinence of the last chapter, Mara Yanni’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Modern Athens,” within the volume’s well-designed conceptual premises. Yanni Sederi compares two Greek-language productions of the Dream, Karolos Koun’s (1971) and Michael Marmarinos’s (2012), epitomizing the turn from modern to postmodern, aestheticized to politicized, utopian to dystopian approaches to Shakespeare in a globalized context of “cultural adaptation” of his plays. But the essay addresses central interests to current Shakespeare studies, and provides a fitting epilogue that holds present-day Greece as a mirror up to classical and early modern realities. On the whole, Shakespeare and Greece is finely researched and amply documented, offering generous and pertinent notes at the end of each chapter, a useful Select Bibliography, and a well-designed Index. In spite of some imbalances, Findlay and Markidou have assembled a bracing volume on a welcome and necessary topic.

References Baldwin, T. W. 1944. William Shakespere’s Small Latine and Less Greeke. 2 Vols. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. Enterline, Lynn. 2012. Shakespeare’s Schoolroom: Rhetoric, Discipline, Emotion. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Martindale, Charles, and Michelle Martindale. 1990. Shakespeare and the Uses of Antiquity. London: Routledge. Miola, Robert S. 1992. Shakespeare and Classical Tragedy: The Influence of Seneca. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 1994. Shakespeare and Classical Comedy: The Influence of Plautus and Terence. Oxford. Oxford University Press. Pollard, Tanya. 2017. Greek Tragic Women on Shakespearean Stages. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pollard, Tanya, and Tania Demetriou. 2017. “Homer and Greek Tragedy in Early Modern England’s Theatres: An Introduction.” Classical Receptions Journal 9 (1): 1–35. Shakespeare, William. 1623. Mr. William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies. London: I. Iaggard and E. Blount.

How to cite this review: Luis-Martínez, Zenón. Review of Alison Findlay and Vassiliki Markidou, eds. Shakespeare and Greece (London: Bloomsbury Arden Shakespeare, 2017). SEDERI 28 (2018): 141–46. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Dpto. Filología Inglesa – Facultad de Humanidades – Campus de «El Carmen» – Avda. Fuerzas Armadas, S/N – 21007 Huelva, Spain

Kirk Melnikoff, ed. 2017. Edward II: A Critical Reader. London and New York: Bloomsbury

Veronika Schandl Pázmány Péter Catholic University, Hungary

By the new millennium Edward II has become Marlowe’s most popular play. While Faustus is still a more common item on school reading lists, directors and audiences more frequently turn to Gaveston’s and Edward’s love story and the turbulent backwaters of medieval English history than to the rise and fall of the famous scholar. Its topic and interpretation also qualify Edward II to feature in more diversified course schedules, which, in the long run, will probably provide a stable place for the play in university curricula as well. Therefore, it is not surprising that the Arden Early Modern Drama Guides included the Marlovian history play among its ranks in a volume of 2017, edited by Kirk Melnikoff. The series is mainly designed to serve as a fairly comprehensive yet accessible guide to teachers and students alike, so each volume provides a summary of earlier scholarship while adding something new to contemplate. The Edward II volume follows the structure of the previous items in the series: after an introduction it outlines the critical backstory and the stage history of the play, provides a chapter on current critical debates and concludes with a thorough guide to secondary sources. Furthermore, it offers four essays that highlight new approaches to the play. This review will look into how it fulfils its double aim functioning both as a resource for teachers and a collection of essays for scholarly research. Melnikoff’s introduction (1–20) details the play’s sources, its dating problems and early popularity, while placing Edward II in the Marlovian oeuvre. Where it ends, Darlene Farabee’s essay continues, observing the play’s critical fate from the sixteenth to the twentieth century (21–42), focusing on the generic problem of the play being both a tragedy and a history play and how this created various critical responses through the ages. While remaining succinct, the chapter manages to emphasize the most important issues raised in Sederi each century thus providing a useful introduction into the play’s critical backstory. Andrea Stevens’ chapter on the play’s stage history (43–72) sees Edward II (following J. A. Downie’s arguments) as the first evidence for Marlowe’s success as a playwright. Although the play was probably absent from the stages in the seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, since its return in 1903 it has been readmitted into the Marlovian stage repertoire. The chapter gives an introduction to Brecht’s rewriting of the play, and discusses the most important Anglo-American performances of this newly discovered “gay classic.” Contextualizing them within British (sexual) politics, the chapter not only discusses Derek Jacobi’s or Ian McKellen’s performance, but also gives a detailed introduction to Derek Jarman’s film version. The final summary chapter by Judith Haber (73–96) examines state of the art criticism, with a slight variation to the normal routine of the series, starting not in the twenty-first century, but in the 1990s, a decade that rediscovered the play for scholarly discussions by considering the play’s sexuality, often alongside its political context. After summarizing the main arguments of the most influential essays written on Edward II in the 1990s the essay concludes that the following decades just added slight variations to the themes these highlighted. The current disdain in scholarly work to focus solely on the play’s sexual themes is shown not only in Hather’s survey of recent work, but also in the following essays in the volume that all shun the discussion of gender and sexuality. The volume closes with an excellent survey for teachers listing the most available resources for the play, assembled by Edward Gieskes. At times one feels that the primary target of these summary chapters are not necessarily Marlovian scholars or early modernists, but even they can benefit from the thorough yet succinct overview they provide. If one critical remark can be allowed here, it is the somewhat painful lack of European and Asian material that is most conspicuous (especially in the “on stage” section), one feels, in these reviews. Sederi

The new perspectives part of the volume starts with Alan Stewart’s excellent essay (97–118) that proposes a triangular reading of Edward II, a contemporary French pamphlet attacking King Henri III, entitled Edoüard et Gaverston, and Marlowe’s The Massacre at Paris. What Stewart hopes from this reading is a realization that French politics did interest and influence Marlowe’s writing of not only The Massacre, but also Edward II. Taking up Marlowe’s use of the word “minion,” previously associated with Henri III’s favorites, the essay provides a convincing argument for further possible resonances between contemporary French politics and Marlowe’s drama on medieval English history. Roslyn L. Knutson attempts to place Edward II in the contemporary repertory (119–44). Since very little is known about the early modern performances of the play besides a title page reference that is was owned by the Lord Pembroke’s Men, it requires a lot of conjecturing and guesswork to find answers to some of the questions repertory studies usually ask (who owned the play, when and how it was performed, what else was in the repertory, etc.). The essay is succinctly argued and immensely well researched, and one comes away with an appreciation of the difficulties in putting together the pieces of an early modern repertory. Using Bourdieu’s concept of conforming transgressions (familiar expressions with tiny variations that still violate accepting codes) James Siemon gives an exciting reading of the play’s usage of ranks and titles. With insightful readings of how Gaveston, the peers and Isabella use or misuse these designations, the essay amply demonstrates Marlowe’s uses of irony also as a commentary on contemporary political changes. Another close reading of the play by Garrett A. Sullivan Jr. discusses different concepts of life and death evident in the play. It demonstrates how fragile clear-cut distinctions between the two are, while placing the terms in a wider historical framework. Being both a compendium and a collection of scholarly essays, from the nature of the volume it is evident that the essays use rather different approaches and methodologies while also addressing different audiences. However, it is nice to observe how much the essays pay attention to each other, reflect on one another’s arguments, try to avoid repetitions and so develop a scholarly

discussion. Overall the volume provides a very strong line-up of contemporary criticism yet also offers an impressive coverage of diverse material, successfully fulfilling the double task it sets out to achieve.

How to cite this review: Schandl, Veronika. Review of Kirk Melnikoff, ed. Edward II: A Critical Reader (London and New York: Bloomsbury, 2017). SEDERI 28 (2018): 147–50. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Pázmány Péter Catholic University – Piliscsaba, Egyetem u. 1. 2087 – Hungary

Marianne Novy. 2017. Shakespeare and Feminist Theory. Bloomsbury: London

Francesca Rayner CEHUM, Universidade do Minho, Portugal

This volume on Shakespeare and Feminist Theory is a clear and accessible addition to the excellent Arden Shakespeare and Theory series. It is aimed on the one hand at university students of Shakespeare, or students of literature in general, who are interested in the ways in which feminist theory might illuminate analysis of the plays and, on the other, at university lecturers interested in integrating a module on feminist approaches to Shakespeare or even creating courses in Shakespeare and feminist theory. It is certainly a topical volume considering the range of feminist demands currently in the public sphere, from demands for greater representation and a highlighting of questions of sexual assault in the film industry to demands for equal pay for work of equal value across various sectors of the economy. Shakespeare and Feminist Theory does not explicitly mention these movements, but it does help to contextualize and theorize them and to apply feminist insights to representations of gender in Shakespeare’s plays. The theoretical approach adopted in the book stresses the variety of feminist theories, from psychoanalysis to new historicism and cultural materialism to queer theory. It emphasizes the fact that much contemporary feminist theory combines different approaches rather than locating itself exclusively in one of these fields and points to new developments such as the expanding critical literature on race and gender in Shakespeare. Nevertheless, the volume privileges a critical tension between “equality feminism” and “difference feminism.” This is evident in the title of the first chapter “Likeness and Difference” which focuses on the ways in which women in Shakespeare might be seen as like or different from men and which gives the greatest impression of keying into a live debate. Missing from the initial overview of feminist theories in the Introduction is a discussion of feminism and presentism and feminist materialism criticism is aligned somewhat uncomfortably with equality feminism Sederi throughout the volume, but Novy’s focus on diversity within feminist theory and on a certain pragmatic combining of insights from different feminist theories is a useful way to introduce the discussion of the plays in the following chapters. Besides the initial chapter on likeness and difference, there are also chapters on desire, marriage, motherhood, language, relations between women and work. The discussions of marriage and motherhood are the chapters that focus most on the ways in which women’s experience in Shakespeare is unlike that of men while the remaining chapters examine more of the likenesses. Although the separation between desire and marriage might be questioned as somewhat heteronormative, the chapter on desire does highlight the strength of the attachment of Emilia to Flavina in Two Noble Kinsmen as “a past relationship with another woman, which could equally be called friendship or love” (45) and the emphasis on the demonization of adulterous desire makes clear that marriage in Shakespeare does not mean the end of desire. The chapter on language contains interesting examples of editing and performance choices and their consequences, although those who work with non- Anglophone Shakespeares will miss attention to the ways in which translation choices also have feminist consequences and there is very little discussion of the feminist rewritings of Shakespeare about which Novy has herself written in Transforming Women: Contemporary Women’s Re-Visions in Literature and Performance (2000). I found the chapter on work particularly stimulating, ranging from those women working in and around the theatre in the early modern period to women such as Portia and Olivia who run their own households to those working in the sex trade in Measure for Measure and Pericles. Each chapter begins with a useful set of questions that guide the discussion of the plays that follows, blending theory and practical examples in a coherent and insightful way. In terms of the plays chosen, there is great sensitivity to the ways in which differences in genre influence representations of gender. Evidently the more positive representation of women in the comedies and their more complex positive treatment in the romances contrasts greatly with their demonization and marginalization in the tragedies and histories. Several plays are dealt with in more than one chapter. These include Much Ado about Nothing, Othello, Henry VI and Antony Sederi and Cleopatra. Discussion of the latter argues for an overwhelmingly positive representation of Cleopatra, but this does downplay the racist and sexist ways in which she is discussed and the ways in which the play frames her as unworthy of trust, unpredictable and manipulative. Hamlet is surprisingly absent from the volume, especially in the chapter on motherhood where Gertrude might seem an obvious case to discuss. The overall impression given by the book of the relationship between Shakespeare and feminist theory is one of diversity and multiplicity. This renders generalization ineffective and counter- productive, for what unites Goneril in King Lear, Viola in Twelfth Night and Margaret in 2Henry VI? The plurality of approaches to the presence or absence of women in Shakespeare is certainly the book’s greatest strength, leaving the reader also with a sense not only of the tension between equality and difference but also of the differences between women themselves in terms of age, class, race, sexuality and nation.

How to cite this review: Rayner, Francesca. Review of Marianne Novy, Shakespeare and Feminist Theory (Bloomsbury: London, 2017). SEDERI 28 (2018): 151–53. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Centro Avançado de Formação Pós-Graduada – Universidade do Minho – Rua de Vila Flor, 166 – 4800-437 Guimarães, Portugal

Stephen O’Neill, ed. 2018. Broadcast Your Shakespeare (Continuity and Change across Media). London and New York: Bloomsbury

Víctor Huertas Martín UNED, Spain

The field of Shakespearean adaptation moves onwards and upwards since it covers a wide range of instances of Shakespearean convergence of old and new media in both the current as well as the twentieth century. In this volume, leading Shakespearean scholars— Stephen O’Neill, Darlena Ciraulo, Robert Sawyer, Diana E. Henderson, David C. Moberly, Christy Desmet, Joseph Haughey, Kirk Hendershott-Kraetzer, Sarah Olive, Romano Mullin, Douglas M. Lanier, Anna Blackwell and Courtney Lehmann—examine various examples of mediatized Shakespearean phenomena. The co- existence of various forms of media produces rhizomatic intersections between Shakespeare’s texts and different forms of fiction that empower users and develop vernacular means of storytelling. These narrative forms manipulate and appropriate Shakespearean sources. The proliferation of traditional perspectives (i.e., the study of generic conventions to read serial appropriations of Shakespeare, and examples of ideological, materialist and feminist criticism), as well as more provocative and newer critical approaches (including a SWOT1 study of the state of affairs at MIT Shakespeare) allows us to explore the impact of Shakespeare’s texts both in traditional media such as film, radio, the phonograph or TV serials and in comparatively recent types of media: Wikipedia, social networks, Tumblr, vlogs, or twitter. This collection of essays, engaging with these collisions between old and new media and their manifestations, present Shakespearean performance rhizomatically and as a series of participatory, dialogical and community-based exchanges through which authors and audiences exchange roles and share their ideas and views on performances and texts. Nevertheless, as the essays show, not all aspects of mediatized Shakespeare create utopian networks of participation. The book also points to the

SWOT: strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats. Sederi examples of gender discrimination, ethnocentrism and conservatism present in some of these mediatized Shakespeares. O’Neill’s “Introduction” defines “broadcast” as the transmission “on a large scale as with radio and TV” (3) and, in this definition, he includes the production of media that foster participatory culture. The rhizomatic and non-hierarchical dissemination of Shakespeare’s works across old and new media takes place within a media ecology which metaphorically extends the meaning of “broadcasting” to “sowing” or “scattering.” Shakespearean texts are presented as handfuls of seeds cast through the air so that they germinate and grow into crops to be harvested. The authors compare sections of Shakespearean texts to seeds which are scattered across the field that the aforementioned ecology represents. According to this metaphor, these Shakespearean texts can be diluted, lost or mingled with different media objects. The broadcast metaphor is further extended to present media adaptations as forms of amplification of Shakespeare’s works, therefore seen as “proliferation” and “surfeit” within the vast media landscape (6). One major critical strand of the book is articulated around censorship, ethics and propaganda. Ciraulo’s chapter on the Warner Brothers’ production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream focuses on the film’s creation of an ostensibly harmless fantasy world as an interpellation mechanism for popular audiences. Yet, as Sawyer’s essay on Orson Welles’ broadcasts of Julius Caesar shows, this fantasy world was neither free from censorship nor from the moralistic agenda which defined the studios’ programmatic impetuses. Sawyer’s chapter describes how the radio—originally intended as a vehicle for government propaganda embraced by artists like John Houseman— became a means of subversion: Welles used the technical effects of the radio to denounce the fascist propaganda of the time. The essays here emphasize the role of media in popularizing Shakespeare at schools. Haughey’s chapter on the impact of the invention of the gramophone and the musical accompaniments, recorded speeches and, subsequently, recorded plays brought about by such inventions, describes the enhancing of American students’ understanding of and interest in Shakespeare’s work. This essay celebrates the manner in which, at a time when culture in the United States was experiencing diminishing interest in Shakespeare, the Sederi gramophone offered the chance to re-ignite engagement with his works. Voices, musical pieces and the popular and prestige-based appeal of well-known speakers constituted, as the chapter explains, main attractors for teachers and popular audiences. Sawyer’s essay on Welles tackles the artist’s massive contribution to spread Shakespeare amongst members of the educational sector with his editions of the plays and his numerous educational initiatives, whether as a student, a scholar or as an artist. The essays also offer insightful commentaries on developing media-based genres that display different storytelling conventions. Desmet’s chapter demonstrates that “Emo Hamlets” have become normative in contemporary representations and interpretations of the Prince of Denmark in digital media. This phenomenon invites regarding Michael Almereyda’s Hamlet (2000) as a source for subsequent Hamlet productions which, as this film does, engage media obsolescence. Likewise, these “Emo Hamlets” portray the sulky protagonist in contrast with the eloquent Renaissance character in mainstream readings of the play. Emos are figures of popular culture who have been downgraded by guardians of high culture. Desmet casts light upon the potential interpretive possibilities presented by Emo Hamlets. Olive’s analysis of the episode “Generation of Vipers” in the crime series Inspector Lewis compares Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida and Patrick Harbinson’s script. She contends that Troilus and Cressida is transformed to fit the tragic expectations of crime drama: the heroine dies a victimized woman despite her feminist stance. Lanier’s chapter, “Vlogging the Bard” explores the storytelling devices in serialized adaptations of Shakespearean plays. In his view, the participatory modes of performance in these media resort to forms of immersion that elude the cause-effect patterns of storytelling: diaristic manifestations, multiplicities of viewpoints, questions and answers, soliloquies, spontaneous scenes capturing the reality of the moment, etc. Vlogging, thus, offers the audience a form of non-linear production reading likely to reconceive, amplify, re-motivate and recast the plays in an innovative manner. Hendershott-Kraetzer’s essay describes the deviant portrayals of Juliet to be found in Tumblr, where the treatment of the heroine can reject the romance narrative in Shakespeare’s original.

The celebratory tones of the book are accompanied by denunciations of the aspects which undermine the democratizing effects of digital technologies. Apart from Olive’s denunciation of the episode’s conservative approach to gender politics, Mullin’s chapter on the Twitter group @HollowCrownFans describes how the lines between production and consumption blur in social networks since users interact with each other and modify Shakespearean plays and source texts, blending old and new media. People wanting to share their views on the series The Hollow Crown (2012) and The Hollow Crown: The Wars of the Roses (2016) find a communal space. Unfortunately, most interventions are made by white, Anglo-Saxon participants, which can rightfully lead us to interrogate the wide- reaching claims of democratization that these open platforms often make to attract users and participants. Blackwell’s chapter, “Somewhere in the world […]. Someone misquoted Shakespeare. I can sense it,” on the public construction of Tom Hiddlestone’s star persona as both an appealing figure of popular mainstream culture and as an educated classically trained Shakespearean, clarifies why heritage productions like The Hollow Crown attract less diverse audiences. As Blackwell suggests, while Hiddleston’s online reaffirmation of his cultural authority is often humorous and informal, his Etonian education, his Englishness, his masculinized pose and his presence in multiple digital platforms nevertheless configure the actor’s body as a signifier of Shakespearean authority, which reminds audiences that the popularization and safe-keeping of the Bard’s cachet should be entrusted to those with the adequate qualifications. Henderson carries out her provocative SWOT analysis of the situation at MIT Shakespeare. The open access MIT archives have given students and researchers the chance to study Shakespearean performances across the globe. Nevertheless, as Henderson’s essay shows, some countries’ performances are under- represented. Though Henderson’s tone is optimistic, her analysis clarifies that the system is experiencing difficulties to be financially and functionally sustainable. Moberly’s chapter on Wikipedia reveals that, while the online encyclopaedia attracts a wide range of academic and non-academic contributors, most of them are male. Additionally, most contributions tackle male-oriented topics. Female participants are largely absent, likely to stop participating and sometimes even bullied. In her “Afterword,” Lehmann denounces the neoliberal discourse of “openness” produced by private sponsors Sederi financing the arts to wash-up their corruption and their scandals. The essay is, nevertheless, completed with examples of performance intended as resistance to such duplicities. This collection is a necessary read for scholars interested in Shakespearean adaptation. Digital platforms like Twitter, Tumblr, Wikipedia and forms of storytelling such as vlogging, together with older forms of media—film, TV, radio, records—offer vast territories of exploration. The book organizes these types of media, both old and new, and provides approaches for such explorations in what otherwise might seem an unfamiliar and entangled maze. In line with the objects of study presented throughout the book, the contributors make use of innovative and more traditional methods of analysis illustrating the continuities between emergent and established forms of Shakespearean performance and scholarship.

How to cite this review: Huertas Martín, Víctor. Review of Stephen O’Neill, ed. Broadcast Your Shakespeare (Continuity and Change across Media (London and New York: Bloomsbury, 2018). SEDERI 28 (2018): 155–59. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Facultad de Filología – UNED – Paseo Senda del Rey, 7 – 28040 Madrid – Spain

Anthony Guy Patricia.2017. Queering the Shakespeare Film: Gender Trouble, Gay Spectatorship and Male Homoeroticism. London and New York: Bloomsbury Goran Stanivukovic, ed. 2017. Queer Shakespeare: Desire and Sexuality. London and New York: Bloomsbury

Juan Carlos Hidalgo Ciudad Universidad de Sevilla, Spain

Bloomsbury Arden Shakespeare has simultaneously brought to life two different titles concerned with Shakespeare and queerness: a monograph on the Shakespeare film and a collection of essays on Shakespeare’s works approached from a queer angle. This apparent coincidence in approach does not go far since, in fact, these two volumes have nothing in common apart from the use of the term ‘queer’ in their respective titles. Whereas Patricia focuses on just a few filmic adaptations of several plays (A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Romeo and Juliet, Twelfth Night, The Merchant of Venice and Othello), Stanivukovic’s volume broadens its scope including most of Shakespeare’s dramatic production plus his lyric poetry and, being a collection, offers a much more heterogeneous approach. Queering the Shakespeare Film, in the words of its author, “critiques the various representations of the queer—broadly understood as that which is at odds with what has been deemed to be the normal, the legitimate and the dominant—particularly (but not exclusively) as regards sexual matters in the Shakespeare film” (xxii). In fact, that seems to be the aim of the study, even though, curiously enough, the term ‘queer’ is taken for granted and is never defined, not even problematized or discussed in any relevant way. It is true that, scattered throughout the book, most of the issues queer theory is concerned with appear, but a more systematic approach is missing. Patricia does not even happen to think that ‘queerness’ is not a synonym for ‘gayness’ and both concepts seem to blur throughout the whole volume. The relevant theorizations of Judith Butler, Eve Kosovsky Sedgwick or David Halperin are considered, but one misses an in-depth discussion of their conceptualization of Sederi ‘queerness’ as something different from, and in many cases in conflict with ‘gay and lesbian.’ Concerning this central and immensely productive theoretical and methodological struggle over terminology, the absence of any reference to the contributions of authors such as Teresa de Lauretis (the first to use the term ‘queer’ as a methodological approach), Leo Bersani or Michael Warner, among many others, is picturesque, to say the least. That is, in my view, the main flaw the reader can encounter in this monograph: a continuous feeling of uneasiness with the methodological tools used. The book is a valuable analytical survey of interesting gay (and sometimes lesbian) features the films under scrutiny pose, covering a vast period of time starting with Max Reinhardt and William Dieterle’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1935) and ending with Alan Brown’s Private Romeo (2011), but the author continuously mixes up methods and terminology in a rather puzzling way. Chapter 1 is devoted to Reinhardt and Dieterle’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, an adaptation Patricia hastens to label as imbued with “the queer problematics of gender, sodomy, marriage and masculinity” (1) immediately stating that “[t]his queerness manifests first of all in the style of Hippolyta’s costuming and more especially in the disdainful way the former queen of the Amazons acts toward Theseus” (3–4). What he offers after this statement is a depiction of this female character as a lesbian (following the parameters for such an identity established by heteronormativity) reluctant to accept a heterosexual marriage with the Duke of Athens. He even quotes Halperin’s famous definition of ‘queer’ (“whatever is at odds with the normal, the legitimate, the dominant” (8)) to substantiate his reading of the character in the film, obviously missing the fact that, from a twenty-first century perspective, Hippolyta’s performance fits quite well within her expected identity as a lesbian and, therefore, has nothing to do with being “at odds with the normal, the legitimate, the dominant.” The same kind of flawed interpretation appears a few pages afterwards when discussing the characters of Lysander and, to a lesser extent, Demetrius. Patricia, again, falls into the trap of equating ‘gayness’ and ‘queerness’ when concluding: So Reinhardt and Dietele’s Lysander, who takes delight in hopping, skipping and often speaking in falsetto, is coded effeminate in a specifically contemporary way because of those behaviours rather Sederi

than because of his love for Hermia as would have been the case during the Renaissance in England. And that is a queer representation indeed. (36–37) As he himself recognizes a few sentences before, this “is the late nineteenth-/twentieth-/early twenty-first-century stereotype of the male homosexual” (36) and, therefore, again, the normal, legitimate and dominant representation of such a figure in heteronormative contexts, something totally at odds with what a queer approach would do with such a situation and character. Even though this is the usual tendency in the book, at times a much queerer perspective is adopted in reading certain instances in the films. Continuing with the case of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the author discusses the issues of bestiality and adult/child eroticism in the figures of Oberon and Titania and he quotes Richard Rambuss in order to assert that “the forest…is a ‘dreamscape lush with sexual possibilities: not only the homoeroticism that sometimes encumbers, sometimes oils the marriage machine of Shakespearean comedy, but also child-love, anality, and bestiality’” (30). Patricia then confirms with his own words that “Oberon and Titania, the straight couple, are the transgressors par excellence when it comes to bestiality and adult/child eroticism” (30), an assertion that effectively aligns them with a disruption of the normal and accepted sexual order, no matter their homo or heterosexual inclinations. But this approach is rather the exception than the rule in a book where we find predominantly a tendency to equate queer and gay. That confusion appears in the rest of the chapters that make up the volume. Chapter 2 is devoted to three different productions of Romeo and Juliet, namely, George Cukor’s (1936), Franco Zeffirelli’s (1968) and Brown’s Private Romeo (2011), and in all three cases the same sense of confusion pervades the analysis. He takes into account the miscast of Cukor’s adaptation with mature actors performing the adolescent roles and considers their mature age as a clear instance of queerness in the film. So far, his perception, explicitly corroborated with the analysis offered by Richard Burt, is totally plausible, something that cannot be said about the other two films, discussed following the typical patterns of a gay, and not so queer, approach. In this respect, a case in point is his discussion of Private Romeo, a film about eight American cadets in a military academy first performing and then assuming in their own lives the text of the star- crossed lovers’ tragedy. Patricia fails here to even discuss the fact that in Shakespeare’s times the female roles were performed by young actors and thus, to have an actor delivering Juliet’s or the Nurse’s lines as if they were women does not have to be read as a disruptive strategy in itself. It is true that Brown’s approach is a queer one in many instances, but not in the ones Patricia decides to label as such. Chapter 3 offers the promise of a queer reading of Trevor Nunn’s Twelfth Night, Baz Lurhmann’s Romeo + Juliet and Michael Hoffman’s William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream applying the Butlerean concept of ‘gender trouble.’ The author endeavours to follow his aim in a systematic way but, again, his problematic conception of what that concept could mean prompts certain contradictory reasoning. Thus, he takes for granted that Cesario’s erotic interest in Orsino must be read as homosexual, even though the role is performed by an actress (100). He, however, neglects to mention that it is in the very narrative of the play, preserved in the filmic version, where that homosexual (but not queer) reading is cancelled, since the actress is just performing the role of a female character (Viola) in disguise, thus preserving the heterosexual attraction she feels for the Duke. Many other examples in this same vein could be noted, but suffice it to say that this is persistently the kind of unqueer readings Patricia offers of the Shakespeare film. The book is completed with chapter 4, devoted to male homoerotics in the already mentioned film by Nunn and Michael Radford’s The Merchant of Venice and chapter 5, where he discusses Orson Welles’ and Oliver Parker’s filmic adaptations of Othello. At the end, Guy Patricia concludes: The overall summation of this book is one that is intuitive: the arc of queering the Shakespeare film seems to follow more or less the arc of history. As Western society became more knowledgeable about and less fearful of, more accepting and less condemnatory of, queerness in the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries— particularly queerness in its homosexual forms—the Shakespeare film followed suit. (219) Which, in my reading, means that the Shakespeare film (at least all the commercial films featured) presents gay characters, gay situations and homoerotic desire in an overt way, but always following the prescriptive method sanctified by Western Sederi heteronormative society for the representation of gay male desire. This method is none other than an assimilation of homosexuality as envious of the original and superior haven offered by heterosexuality. No more and no less. If Patricia focuses on the gay reception of Shakespeare in filmic texts of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, the volume edited by Goran Stanivukovic takes a reverse path projecting a queer late sixteenth and early seventeenth-century Shakespeare into a contemporary queer milieu. In his introduction to this collection of essays, the editor postulates: If Shakespeare came before queer theory in the sense that his texts anticipate some of the ideas upon which queer theory would later be built, his texts also contributed to the queer structure of thinking about polymorphous sexuality, in a way that closes the gap between the pastness of Shakespeare and the contemporariness of queer theory. (13) However, this ‘closing of the gap’ cannot be considered an attempt to force contemporary significance into the past; on the contrary, the texts themselves contain a multiplicity of significations among which a present day critic and reader can discover some closely linked to our own contemporary queer theory and practice. The volume aims to redefine the very concept of queerness expanding its epistemological productivity to fields which, at least at first sight, could not fit unproblematically within the scope of such a term. That is the reason why it seems quite necessary to devote a great part of the introduction to a critical analysis of the way ‘queer’ is understood both by scholars concerned with early modern literature and by queer theorists and academics whose work is more focused on contemporary queer culture. In this respect, an extensive and well documented survey of these different kinds of criticism applied to Shakespeare and the Renaissance helps the reader to clearly situate the essays in the volume in relation to previous literature on the subject. Apart from this introductory chapter, the book is divided into three parts concerned respectively with “queer time,” “queer language,” and “queer nature,” labels that function as mere indicators of a central concern in each section that expands to questions of desire and sexuality in quite diverse Shakespearean texts. This division, Stanivukovic advises,

should be taken as a way of stimulating further critical thinking about queer Shakespeare by identifying notions that the chapters in each part offer as a way of starting critical conversation, not clear- cut thematic categories that neatly correspond to topics explored in each of the chapters within the three parts. (26) And, in complete coherence with this advice, the reader will find not only chapters on erotic discourses (chapter 1: “’Which is worthiest love’ in The Two Gentlemen of Verona”; chapter 3: “The Sport of Asses: A Midsummer Night’s Dream”), but also on the queerness of early modern English due to the profound changes the English language was undergoing (at the time) (chapter 2: “Glass: The Sonnets’ Desiring Object”; chapter 5: “The Queer Language of Size in Love’s Labour’s Lost”; chapter 7: “Desiring H: Much Ado About Nothing and the Sound of Women’s Desire”) and on desire, environment and nature in general (the third part: “Queer Nature”) The two books under review deal with the same object of enquiry, Shakespeare’s works, but the methodological tools used are different. A queer perspective undoubtedly guides both projects, but the way of understanding that perspective really diverges. While Patricia presents a rather constrictive and reductive view of queerness, most of the time equating it with the identity-based concept of gayness, the contributors to Stanivukovic’s volume opt for a broader, more expansive notion that allows for unprecedented analyses of the Shakespearean corpus and for new and challenging approaches to the critically productive potential of queer theory and methodology.1

How to cite this review: Hidalgo Ciudad, Juan Carlos. Review of: Anthony Guy Patricia. Queering the Shakespeare Film: Gender Trouble, Gay Spectatorship and Male Homoeroticism (London and New York: Bloomsbury, 2017), and Goran Stanivukovic, ed. Queer Shakespeare: Desire and Sexuality (London and New York: Bloomsbury, 2017). SEDERI 28 (2018): 161–66. Author’s contact: [email protected] Postal address: Dpto. Filología Inglesa: Literatura Inglesa y Norteamericana – Facultad de Filología – C/ Palos De La Frontera, s/n – 41004 Sevilla – Spain